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ISSIONARY'S ISoTEBOOK 



BY 



REV. RICHARD W. ALEXANDER 



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ILLUSTRATED 



PHILADELPHIA 
CATHOLIC STANDARD AND TIMES PUBLISHING CO. 

1908 






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Copyright, ipo8, by Francis P, Green. 



Preface 

Narratives of human interest are always extremely 
attractive, especially when they touch the deeper chords 
of the heart. We love to read of the inner life of 
others and contrast experiences. This is one of the 
reasons that have made the life stories of Rev. Richard 
W. Alexander so very popular. In his missionary 
experiences he has come in contact with a host of souls, 
and his "Notebook'' must be rich in these treasured 
tales of the lives of others. 

There is, however, another reason for the wonderful 
vogue these stories have attained; and this reason is 
their relationship to the non-Catholic mission work. 
They constitute the first literary fruits of a religious 
movement that has spread throughout the country and 
has awakened the interest of the most sincere and 
devout Catholic souls. Every great movement that 
has left its impress on its day and generation has pro- 
duced a literature of its owm. The mission movement 
for non-Catholics is not without this evidence of its 
intellectual and religious depth. 

During the past fifteen years this movement, as it 
now centres about the Apostolic Mission Rouse in 
Washington, has turned the attention of the priesthood 
in a more positive way to the great work of convert- 
making, and has awakened a popular interest in the 
soul stories of the thousands who have sought within 
the haven of the Church a refuge from the storms of 
religious discussions and the darkness of doubts and 



4 PREFACE. 

uncertainties that prevail in the outer religious world. 
This wave of enthusiasm for converts and convert- 
making has created the demand for such stories as 
Rev. Richard W. Alexander has published month by 
month in The Missionary. As they were published 
they were copied extensively in the religious press, and 
some of them have been selected for the pages of the 
graded readers for the children of the schools. They 
have been read with the keenest interest in the class 
room and have found their way into the refectories 
of not a few convents of religious, where they have 
been read aloud for the edification of all, and in some 
instances they have been taken into the pulpit and 
given to the people instead of the Sunday sermon. 

All this has created an irresistible demand for their 
republication in book form. What, too, has added to 
their charm is the wonderful skill of the story-teller. 
He has a rich vein of precious ore to mine, but his 
strong fingers have known how to work the precious 
metal into most exquisite settings. Many of these 
stories are so touching, as well as so true, that they 
have stirred the heart to its depths. I have heard 
some of them read in a group of not oversensitive 
souls, and there was not a dry eye at the finish. 

Abundant evidences such as these of their supreme 
merit will give them a larger and more appreciative 
public as they appear in book form. 

Rev. a. p. Doyle, C. S. P., 
Apostolic Mission House, 

April, 1908. Brookland, Washington, D. C. 



Introduction 

The writer of these missionary notes tells in some 
of them certain personal experiences of his own; the 
others he has learned from missionaries of his 
acquaintance, the personal form of the narrative being 
preserved for the sake of a more vivid presentation 
of the scenes and incidents — and all are vouched for 
as true. 

They are gathered together to be of service in the 
pulpit, in the Sunday school, in academy and parish 
libraries, as parochial premiums or as interesting and 
edifying reading in the home circle, for old and young. 

They illustrate God's infinite love for souls, also the 
fact that in every walk of life there are opportunities 
of being an apostle. 

The Author. 



Contents 

PAGE 

The Dying Actress 9 

Tpie Apostle of His Family 16 

Good Seed Dropped While Traveling ... 24 

Told by a Bishop 30 

Concerning Joe Wiggins 36 

The Choir Boy 40 

Dr. Thorn 44 

How She Converted Her Pastor . . . .61 

The Lady and the Bishop -65 

One Night in the Isolated Ward .... 67 

Kitty 75 

A Brother's Prayers 79 

The Fruit of a Single Mass 92 

The Apostolate of a Little Maid .... 99 

A Happy Find iii 

The Power of the Blessed Sacrament . . .115 

His Mother's Beads 122 

The Newsboy Martyr . 126 

Conversion of the Cook 136 

An Upright Heart Finds the Truth . . . 141 

Snatched From the Burning . . . . . 144 

Poor Little Madeleine! 149 

His Catholic Wife 154 

Converted by History and Shakespeare . . 166 

Out of the Darkness 173 

The Unheeded Call 177 



The Dying Actress 

''Talking about apostolates/' said a Massachusetts 
priest to me some time ago, ''let me tell you of an 
experience of mine. I was called out one night at lo 
o'clock bv one of our hotels to the bedside of an actress. 
They said she was unconscious and dying, and that 
she might be a Catholic, for she had a rosary on her 
dressing table. I went hastily with the holy oils. I 
found a girl of about twenty-two, lying pale and help- 
less on her bed. Her eyes were closed, and her long, 
dark hair, disordered on the pillow, framed a singularly 
sweet, innocent face. One of the hotel maids was 
busied about her, and it was not hard to know what 
faith shone in her honest, charitable eyes. Stepping 
reverently aside, she said in a hushed voice to some 
of the troupe that were in the small room : 

" 'It's the priest' 

"Every one made way, and I stooped over the girl. 
She opened her eyes and tried to smile. 

" 'Are you a priest ?' she asked. 

" 'Yes, my child,' I answered. 

" 'Am I very ill ? I am in aw^f ul pain, but maybe 
I'll get better.' Then she suddenly fainted. 

"The maid I spoke of gave her restoratives, and I 
hurriedly asked what was the matter. 

" 'Why, Burtie was performing her great trapeze 
act to-day and missed her count, Father ; she fell thirty 



10 THE DYING ACTRESS. 

feet. The surgeon says her spine is injured and there 
is no hope. He gave her twelve hours to Hve, perhaps 
not that. It is her grit that keeps her up, Father/ 
said the young woman, with tears in her eyes. 

'' 'She is the best performer in the company,' said 
another young woman. 

'' 'A variety actress ?' 

'' 'Yes, Father. We have refined vaudeville. But 
we are a very select organization,' said the woman, 
with emphasis. 'Burtie is very correct. Not a breath 
of gossip ever touched her ! She kept us all straight. 
Poor Burtie!' 

''Just then Burtie's eyes opened. 

" 'The priest,' she said faintly. 

"I made a sign to them. 'You had better all leave, 
and I will call you in a few minutes.' 

" 'Yes, Father,' they said obediently, and I was alone 
with the dying girl. 

" 'Father, I want to make a general confession,' said 
she, and she began with difficulty a clear, honest, sin- 
cere confession. It took her some time, but she would 
not let me hurry her. I said a few words and gave 
her as penance one 'Hail Mary.' She began to say 
it aloud slowly. 'My child,' I said, 'make a fervent 
act of contrition first. I am going to give you absolu- 
tion.' 

" 'Oh, no. Father,' she said ; 'you must first give me 
the Sacrament of Baptism.' 

" 'Baptism !' I said, amazed. 'Surely you are bap- 
tized !' 



THE DYING ACTRESS. n 

" 'No, Father. I am not a Catholic. I was never 
baptized. In beHef I am and always have been a 
Catholic, but I never received any sacrament. I go 
to Mass every Sunday I can and say my rosary. I 
learned that at school. But our life has been so roving 
that I could only do that much. I never had much 
chance, you see. I was wild and self-willed, and when 
grandma died I left school ; and as there was no one to 
restrain me, being alone in the world, I drifted from 
dancing school to riding wild horses and doing bur- 
lesque. But I never forgot all I learned at the con- 
vent, although I did not think about it for a long time.' 

'' 'Where did you go to school, my child?' 

" 'To boarding school — to St. X. Academy, Penn- 
sylvania.' 

'T knew the convent well. I paused, amazed at 
her story, told with difficulty, for her sufferings were 
evident. 

" 'Won't you baptize me. Father, and then give me 
absolution? Baptism is enough, I know, but I want 
absolution, too.' 

"She folded her hands and looked steadily at me 
with dark, soft eyes, in which I saw death. 

" 'Indeed I will, child,' and I took out my stole and, 
seizing a goblet of water from her table, I exhorted 
her to perfect contrition, and fervently baptized her. 

" 'Thank God !' she whispered, and closed her eyes. 

"It seemed to me, after a few moments' pause, that 
the ghastly hue of death had given place to a more 
life-like color. I waited. 



12 THE DYING ACTRESS. 

" 'Father/ she said, Tm suffering terribly, and I 
know now that I will die soon. I want you to give me 
Holy Viaticum and Extreme Unction.' 

''I hesitated. I was amazed. Here was a dying 
actress, just baptized! How did I know whether she 
was sufficiently instructed ? She read my thoughts. 

'' 'You don't think I am instructed. Father ? I be- 
lieve firmly that the Blessed Eucharist is our Lord 
Himself, His true Body and Blood, which I am to 
receive without fasting because He is my Viaticum ; 
and Extreme Unction is the last anointing of the puri- 
fied Catholic before she goes to meet her Judge ! 
Father, I remember it all. I used to listen to Sister 
Veronica telling the class. Her instructions could 
never be forgotten ! Father, won't you give me the 
last sacraments?' 

"Here was an apostolate fulfilled! That good Sis- 
ter, whoever she was, had saved this soul ! 'Wait ten 
minutes, dear child. I will bring our Lord to you.' 
And I went hastily to the door and summoned those 
outside. To the Catholic maid, who was nearest me, 
I said, T am going to the church for the Blessed Sacra- 
ment; I will be back inside of fifteen minutes,' and I 
hurried out. 

'Tn less than fifteen minutes I was back at Burtie's 
bedside. She was breathing quietly, and unclosed her 
eyes when I came in. I whispered my instructions to 
the maid. A little table with lighted candles, holy 
water, etc., was quickly prepared, and I laid the pyx 
upon it. As I lifted the Sacred Host the girl's eyes 



THE DYING ACTRESS. 13 

were fixed upon it, and I heard her say, 'My Lord and 
my God !' I could hardly keep back a tear. I admin- 
istered her first and last Communion. Extreme Unc- 
tion followed. She held out her hands for the holy 
oil, and when I read the final prayers and gave her 
the last absolution a little sigh of content broke from 
her lips. 

'' Thank God,' she said again, but it was in a 
whisper. 

"There was silence in the room. It was full of hotel 
people and the young women of the company, but all 
wxre deeply impressed and very reverent. 

''The doctor came, made a short examination. 'Any 
hope?' I whispered. 

" 'She may last an hour,' and he left the room. I 
sat down by the bed, for this little convert had gone to 
my heart. She lay very still, fingering her rosary. 
She opened her soft, dark eyes and her lips formed 
some words. I bent over her, and she said, with diffi- 
culty of breath, but very distinctly : 

" 'Father — write to St. X. — won't you ? Tell Sister 
Veronica — I died — a good Catholic ; that I made my — 
first Communion — on m_y death-bed — she used to talk — 
so much about — the happy day of first Communion ! I 
know now. She used to say, "My Lord and my God." 
It was engraved on her silver ring — yes. "My Lord 
and my God !" ' 

"I promised. These were her last words. She 
seemed to sleep, and then awoke with wide, distressed 
eyes. I began the prayers for the dying and gave her 



14 THE DYING ACTRESS, 

the Plenary Indulgence. The lines of pain wore away, 
and at the end her face was radiant. When all was 
over a marvelous expression of peace and content was 
there, and the weeping women who crowded round 
the pillow of death sobbed out, 'Oh, how beautiful she 
is !' I made the sign of the cross over the lifeless 
remains and left. 

''When I got home I sat for a long time in my study, 
thinking over the whole occurrence; and I am not 
ashamed to say I dashed away some tears. Before I 
sought my bed I wrote a letter to 'Sister Veronica, St. 
X. Academy, Pennsylvania,' and told her all I had 
witnessed. Several days passed by. The company 
carried away the remains of poor Burtie to her home 
city. I heard no more about the episode. I had for- 
gotten to inquire the correct name of the poor child 
for registry, and felt I had been rather negligent in 
an important matter ; but at the end of the week a letter 
came from the superior of the academy. It read as 
follows : 

"'Dear Rev. Father: Your letter was received 
and made a profound impression on the Sisters. We 
all remembered poor Burtie Carr. She was a bright, 
spirited girl and everybody liked her. Knowing she 
was never baptized and would have few opportunities 
for instruction after she left us, her teacher did all in 
her power in her class instructions to explain Catholic 
doctrine. She told me she often said a silent prayer, 
and looking at Burtie would try to fix her attention, 
as she was the only non-Catholic in the room. This 



THE DYING ACTRESS. 15 

dear Sister has now passed to her heavenly home, 
young in years, but full of grace and merit. Her name 
was Sister Veronica Ewing, daughter of the late Gen- 
eral Hugh Ewing, soldier and author. She was of a 
distinguished American family, niece of General Sher- 
man and cousin of Father Thomas Sherman, S. J. 
She is sleeping in our little cemetery, and we can 
readily believe her soul has met the ransomed soul of 
her pupil, converted through her words and prayers 
after many years. I thank you for writing this ac- 
count, dear Rev. Father, and recommending myself to 
your prayers, I remain with respect, yours in Christ, 
" 'Sister Stanislaus, Superior.' 
"I folded the letter and thought 'What a history, 
and how many more are unwritten !' Then I said 
aloud: 'Oh, ye good Sisters, who give out the milk 
and honey of the faith to young souls who cluster 
round your school desks, have ye not an apostolate in 
your cloisters ?' " 



The Apostle of His Family 

Percy Brown, without a doubt, is in heaven with 
the angels and saints. Indeed, his short career was 
so unusual that he deserves a place among God's 
chosen apostles. 

When a little fellow of five years he was a frequent 
visitor at a neighbor's house next door to his own 
Protestant home. And for this reason: In one of 
the rooms of this good Catholic family there hung a 
large and beautiful picture of the crucifixion of our 
Lord. It was something new and strange to Percy, 
and the very first time he saw it he demanded an 
explanation, which was given with due deference to 
the supposed infantile intelligence of the inquirer. He 
was awed and impressed and constantly spoke about 
it at home. He was not understood, of course, and 
no attention was paid to his prattling. His visits to 
the picture continued, however, and the good mother 
of the Catholic home instinctively felt that there was 
something unusual about Percy. His two brothers 
took him to the public school when he was a little 
over six years old. But he was not satisfied there, and 
left after a few days, and, without the knowledge of 
his parents, went to the parochial school with a little 
Catholic friend of his own age. His brothers men- 
tioned the matter at home, but when Percy seemed 



THE APOSTLE OF HIS FAMILY. 17 

so happy his parents said it ''made no difference" and 
permitted him to continue. 

The next year, during the Ember Days of Septem- 
ber, the younger children of St. Mary's School were 
prepared for first Confession. Percy, who had learned 
his Catechism and the method of confessing, marched 
to the church with the rest and took his place near 
the box. 

A lady who was making a visit to the Blessed Sacra- 
ment in the church had her attention attracted to the 
children and was surprised to see the little 'Tro- 
testant boy," who had never been baptized, seated with 
the Catholic children before the ''box." She knew 
Percy's family well, and was quite a friend to the little 
boy; in fact, the picture of the Crucifixion to which 
we have referred was in her house. She immediately 
spoke to the Sister in charge of the class. 

"Sister, isn't that Percy Brown?" 

"Yes; Percy is going to make his first Confession. 
He is well prepared." 

"But, Sister, don't you know every one belonging 
to him is Protestant? Why, the child has never been 
baptized in any church." 

"What!" exclaimed the Sister, turning pale, "Percy 
not a Catholic — not baptized, you say?" 

"He is not a Catholic and has never been baptized," 
repeated the lady. "I know the family well. I live 
next door." 

The Sister lost no time in going over to Percy and 
telling him that he could not go to Confession — that 



i8 THE APOSTLE OF HIS FAMILY. 

she did not know he was not a CathoHc. The effect 
upon Percy was startHng. 

''Oh! Sister/' he sobbed, ''I am a Catholic. I do 
want to go and tell my sins. I ain't a Protestant." 

His grief was heart-breaking. 

The children all stood up and looked at the little 
fellow, thinking he was reproved for some misde- 
meanor; and the priest, hearing the noise, came out 
of the confessional and asked what was the matter. 
The Sister told him. Looking at the tear-stained 
little face and the swimming blue eyes, the priest 
smiled and said: 

''Why, my boy, what is the reason you want to go 
to Confession?" 

"To tell my sins," said the little six-year-old between 
his sobs. 

"But your sins cannot be forgiven by absolution. 
You have never been baptized." 

"Well, then, baptize me. Father, and let me go to 
Confession," pleaded the little fellow. 

The priest hesitated. The little face was thoughtful, 
even though drenched with tears. 

"Well, you may come into the confessional. But 
you must stop crying and not distract your com- 
panions." And the priest returned to the box. 

Percy was quiet at once, and when his turn came 
he went into the confessional. When he came out 
he went straight to the altar railing and knelt there 
in prayer. As he left the church he said to the Sister : 

"I'm going to bring my mother to Father 



THE APOSTLE OF HIS FAMILY, 19 

to-morrow. I am going to be baptized a Catholic." 

The Sister was rather surprised at the emphasis of 
the httle feUow, and said warningly : 

''Don't make your mother angry, Percy. You ought 
to wait until you are a little older." 

''But suppose I should die!" said the small phil- 
osopher. "You told us yourself, Sister, we would 
never see God without being baptized." 

The Sister acknowledged the fact, but, not wishing 
to cause trouble in a Protestant household, told Percy 
to say a fervent prayer before he asked his mother. 

What Percy told his mother we do not know, but 
the ver}^ next afternoon she came to the rectory with 
Percy. 

She explained that the boy gave her no peace, in- 
sisted on being baptized, and was so serious and earn- 
est that she and his father saw no great harm in 
gratifying him. And she asked the priest to baptize 
him. Percy was radiant with joy. The good pastor 
baptized him and the mother watched the ceremonial 
with a few others who were present. 

Percy received the name of "Joseph," and was so 
delighted that he would answer to nothing else, except 
from his father, who always called him Percy. 

He bought a small crucifix and wore it around his 
neck, and continued his attendance at St. Mary's 
School. He was obedient and attentive and possessed 
the usual amount of boyish liveliness. After a year 
or two he began to tease his mother about his two 
brothers. He told her that they would never go to 



20 THE APOSTLE OF HIS FAMILY. 

heaven if they were not baptized, and he continually 
spoke of the beautiful instructions and the many inter- 
esting things that happened at the parish school. In 
the end he persuaded her to send the other two boys 
to St. Mary's with him. 

The Sisters were surprised and delighted one morn- 
ing to see little Percy, now nine years old, march in 
proudly with his two elder brothers (not much older, 
to be sure), and have them placed on the school roll. 
This young apostle never ceased until he obtained their 
consent and that of their parents to their baptism, and 
both boys received the sacred waters of regeneration. 
They appreciated the grace that was given to them 
through their little brother, and they loved him with 
an extraordinary tenderness in which all at home 
shared. In due time all three were confirmed and 
made their first Holy Communion. 

Percy now became an altar boy, and his piety and 
diligence were remarkable. He had an altar erected 
in his little bed room at home, where he hung his 
precious crucifix and all the medals and sacred pictures 
he received at school. One day his father, annoyed 
at some childish misdemeanor, commanded him to take 
"that Popish trumpery" down. "If you don't," said 
the angry man, "I will throw the whole business into 
the fire and take you from that Papist school." 

Percy stood still, as if he were rooted to the spot. 
Then the large tears gathered in his eyes and rolled 
down his cheeks and his frame shook with emotion. 
He fell on his knees. 



THE APOSTLE OF HIS FAMILY. 21 

'Tapa ! Papa V he cried, ''you will break your little 
boy's heart. Oh! papa, you don't know how good 
they make me.'' 

The father's heart was touched to see his darling 
boy, his favorite son, in such anguish. He lifted him 
up and told him he might keep his pictures and stuff. 
But as Percy nestled to his father's breast his heaving 
bosom and convulsive sobs showed how his little heart 
was wounded. 

After that his father never permitted him to be 
crossed in his piety or his ''religious notions," as he 
called them. Percy was frail, and to his parents he 
seemed like an angel, too sweet and rare to belong to 
this earth — his face was so pure and spiritual, his 
sayings so unusual, so "old-fashioned" as they 
phrased it. 

After Percy left school he went to learn a trade, 
and sometimes had to make great efforts and even 
sacrifices to hear Mass on Sundays and receive the 
sacraments. On one occasion he was detained late 
on Saturday night and he cautioned his mother not to 
let him oversleep himself. 

"You know, mother," he said, "Catholics commit a 
mortal sin if they stay away from Mass on Sunday." 

His mother promised, but when she went to call 
him he looked so weary and slept so soundly she "had 
not the heart" to rouse the poor boy. When he awoke 
and found the lateness of the hour he rushed out of 
the house without his breakfast and ran from church 
to church, only to find even the last Mass almost over. 



22 THE APOSTLE OF HIS FAMILY, 

He returned home disconsolate. All week he was 
depressed and sad over this accident, and his mother 
assured him she would never disappoint him again. 
It was then that Percy asked her to go with him on 
Sundays, and to please him she consented and later 
accompanied him to Mass. One grace led to another, 
and before the end of the year she was baptized and 
made her profession of faith. 

Percy's whole heart was now set on the conversion 
of his father. But this seemed an impossibility. Mr. 
Brown had not interfered or made objections when 
the rest of his family followed Percy, but no example 
or precept seemed to affect him. He was a good man, 
as far as honesty and morals go, but he had no use 
for special piety or religion. Percy grew more 
fervent, more prayerful. We know not the thoughts 
that filled his innocent heart, but we know that his 
health began to decline. He was not nineteen, yet 
it was evident he had not long to live. Work was 
perforce given up and the lad remained at home. 
Patient, gentle, uncomplaining, he prayed and read 
and became the object of the tenderest love and care. 

One day he came on his father sitting on the back 
porch with his own little Catechism in his hands. The 
boy said nothing, but his heart gave a great bound of 
joy. 

"Bring him to the faith. Lord, and take my poor 
life," he murmured. 

It was not long before the propitious moment came. 
His father knew what was passing in the boy's mind 



THE APOSTLE OF HIS FAMILY, 23 

and had set to work to learn something of the rehgion 
which surrounded him with such peace and content. 
He felt that his cherished son was praying for him — 
nay, might be offering up his pure life for him. He 
resisted grace no longer. He spoke to a priest, was 
instructed and baptized and became a member of the 
Holy Catholic Church. 

Percy's soul was filled to the brim with holy joy. 
He lay on his couch, white and wan, but overflowing 
with happiness. He felt he was dying, but oh ! it was 
easy now to die, when those he loved — mother, father, 
two brothers — were bound close to him by a common 
faith and would be with him in the spirit world by 
the consoling doctrine of the communion of saints. 
And one day when they gathered round his bed and 
watched the death damp gather on his forehead he 
smiled an angel's smile on their bleeding hearts and 
fled away to receive the crown of an apostle. 

Oh! can we doubt that his spirit still hovers over 
them and helps them to bear life's trials and its pains ? 
Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for their 
works live after them. 



A Good Seed Dropped While Traveling 

It was a long journey, this trip from Chicago to 
Pittsburg, and although I was comfortably fixed in my 
Pullman, with Sunday newspapers and magazines, I 
would have preferred a berth and a night journey, 
when I could have slept all the way and wakened at 
my destination. The fates were against me, and I 
made a virtue of necessity. The train had started, 
and, after the first quarter of an hour, had got into 
the fixed, rapid swing of the limited, and I looked aim- 
lessly out of the window at the flying landscape and 
began a train of thought. I wondered if it were any 
dispensation of Providence that caused me to travel 
thus in daytime instead of night, as I had desired. 
Recalling many instances in which I had known such 
things to be the case, I mentally ofifered myself to God 
and begged Him to permit me to be a willing instru- 
ment in His hands, whatever might happen, and a little 
hymn my children of the parish are accustomed to sing 
during Mass flitted through my mind : 

"All for Thee, O Heart of Jesus, 
All for Thee in life and death. 
Till my latest dying breath.'' 

I think I hummed the melody as I listened to the 
regular throbbing of the wheels over the track of the 
iron horse, and I felt in a particularly happy state of 



A GOOD SEED DROPPED WHILE TRAVELING. 25 

mind. Sitting close to the window, I had fastened a 
silk handkerchief lightly around my neck, which 
entirely concealed my Roman collar. Looking up after 
a few minutes, I met the eyes of a gentleman of about 
thirty-five, who occupied the chair in front of mine. 
He bowed, and I returned the salutation. 

"A long journey before us, sir," he said. "The first 
stop of the train is in Pittsburg, I believe.'' 

''Oh, no,'' I answered ; ''there is a stop or two before 
that. But it is a long journey even to that point. 
Pittsburg is my destination." 

"I am going straight on to New York, where I take 
the Etruria for Liverpool. I am a merchant, traveling 

in the interests of X & Co. I am a member of 

the firm. My wife and children await me in New 
York." 

"I trust the journey and the voyage will be favor- 
able. We hear of so many accidents of late." 

"Thank you. I hope our party will have none." 
Then there was a pause. "Suppose we play a game of 
cards to pass the time." 

"I am sorry to say no, but I never played a game of 
cards in my life." 

He looked at me in surprise. 

"Well, well, that is unusual. I am fond of a game. 
Suppose I show you some tricks at cards, simple tricks, 
of course, but amusing enough to while away the 
time." 

"I shall be delighted," I said. "I enjoy these things 



26 A GOOD SEED DROPPED WHILE TRAVELING. 

very much, although I am not conversant with them. 
In fact, I have never had the time." 

He called the porter by a touch of the electric bell, 
and he soon had a portable table before us. Between 
the really amusing tricks and clever conversation an 
hour or two slipped by most pleasantly. Finally the 
table was removed and, turning our chairs together, 
we began to talk more confidentially. 

"You are an observing man," he said to me, ''a 
student and a thinker. I like to talk to you. I also 
have read a great deal. There is only one thing that 
puzzles me, so to speak; one thing I cannot swallow 
nor digest, and that is the doctrine of Roman Catho- 
lics." 

''Do you know much about it?" 

''Hardly a thing, except the traditions of my child- 
hood, which have grown with my growth. Our 
childhood seldom plays us false." 

"I don't agree with you in that, my friend. Any- 
how, I am a Catholic — a Roman Catholic, as you say 
it." 

He gave a start and looked squarely at me. I was 
smiling. 

"You a Roman Catholic? I would never have 
thought so. I really beg your pardon." 

"And why would you never have thought so ?" 

"Well, because an intelligent man like you does not 
seem to belong to that priest-ridden sect!" 

"But I am also a priest." 

He fairly stared at me. I was amused, for, with all 



A GOOD SEED DROPPED WHILE TRAVELING. 27 

his assumption of extensive reading, he evidently had 
never been in such company before. 

''I beg a thousand pardons ! A priest ! Who would 
have believed it ? A priest ! I am glad it isn't one of 
those deluded monks that figure so largely in the Dark 
Ages/' he murmured. 

''But I am also a monk ; that is, a member of a relig- 
ious order, traveling from one monastery to another 
on business.'' 

He wheeled his chair around, then back again, his 
face betokening a profound amazement. 

''A priest, a monk and — a gentleman !" 

''I hope so," I said. ''And now, my friend, without 
the slightest feeling of acrimony, let me tell you some- 
thing. You have gone through life and have read, you 
say, a great deal. It may be so, but it is my turn to be 
amazed that a gentleman of your intelligence should 
have been satisfied with such a one-sided opinion of 
us as you seem to have. You have, pardon me, been 
unjust and narrow in your prejudices; you have not 
looked at the 'other side.' You say you know hardly 
anything of the Catholic faith, you never met a priest 
and you consider monks a product of a period you call 
the 'Dark Ages.' I do not blame you entirely, but I 
say, in justice to your intelligence, to your manhood, 
why not look at the other side and weigh both in the 
balance? Read up the Catholic side from Catholic 
sources. Study the Church from her own point of 
view, as a matter of justice, and then write to me, or, 
better still, come and see me, and I will give you the 



28 A GOOD SEED DROPPED WHILE TRAVELING, 

very best hospitality of our monastery and introduce 
you to a dozen more monks, better men than I am/' 
And I gave him a card with my name and that of my 
college on it. 

He listened without a word and accepted the card. 
Very little more passed between us, and I began to say 
my office. 

Not very long afterwards we approached Pittsburg. 
As we paused in Union Station I gave him my hand. 
He shook it warmly and gave me his card. I left the 
train, rushed over to an ''accommodation'' that took 
me to my destination, and lost sight of him. Many a 
time after he came to my mind, and I always uttered 
a prayer that he might at last see the ''other side." 
But years passed by, and I entirely forgot him. 

It was seven years after that journey from Chicago 
that a stranger rang the electric bell at our door and 

asked the porter for Father . He would not 

give his name. 

I descended to the parlor. We looked closely at 
each other. Of course, I wore my habit. 

"Are you Father ?" 

"I am, and you are Mr. , of Chicago. We 

traveled once together." 

"How well you remember! I did not know you in 
your present garb. Yes, I am the man. Your 
patience and courtesy with me that day, when I almost 
insulted your faith, your priesthood and your vocation, 
deeply impressed me — impressed me and irritated me, 
too, I must confess. And when I got to Europe I 



A GOOD SEED DROPPED WHILE TRAVELING. 29 

determined to study up the 'other side/ as you termed 
it, so as to prove by my own experience that I was 
right and you were wrong. I read CathoUc books, 
visited CathoHc churches and monasteries, and found, 
as is always the case with a conceited ignoramus, that 
I was wrong and you were right ! I became a Catho- 
lic, and my wife and children, too. And as I always 
kept your card, I have come all this way to call on you 
and thank you for bringing me as you did to that 'other 
side,' where only the true faith is found." 

Needless to say, there was a joyful hour spent that 
day, and I was made blissfully happy by the convic- 
tion that Providence may make use, in His ineffable 
designs on souls, of even an impatient and unworthy 
traveler. 



Told By a Bishop 

Two BiSHors sat conversing in the evening twilight 
of a certain day. One was a visitor to the other's 
episcopal residence. Both were holy men, but one was 
particularly blessed by a wonderful regularity and 
progress in all church affairs in his diocese. His 
priests were earnest and faithful ; his parishes filled 
with devoted laymen, and rarely, if ever, did the breath 
of scandal touch his see. And this was the visiting 
Bishop. The other Bishop was noting these facts in 
conversation and congratulating his visitor on these 
great blessings which had continued for many years. 

''Hold!" said the latter. 'Traise me not. You 
know not what you say. I have had nothing, abso- 
lutely nothing, to do with all this.'' 

''What!" cried his friend, "nothing to do with it? 
You are jesting, my lord. You are surely jesting." 

"No,'' returned his visitor solemnly. "I tell you 
truly the fact, and I thank my God, for it keeps me in 
humble trust at the feet of His providence." 

"Explain this parable then," said his friend. "There 
are few dioceses more richly favored by heaven than 
yours, and while it is good to hear such expressions of 
humility, we all know better than your words." 

"If you force me to it," said his visitor, "I shall tell 
you, but, remember, I tell you only the truth, and you 
must believe me. 



TOLD BY A BISHOP. . 31 

''The night before my consecration I was on my 
knees alone, praying to God to have mercy on my un- 
worthiness, and protesting I knew not how to carry 
the burden that would be placed on me the morrow, 
which never seemed so awful in the perspective as in 
that hour. Suddenly my surroundings left me. I 
seemed to be in a small church, and before me at some 
distance I saw a nun kneeling. Her face was lifted 
in earnest prayer, and while I gazed on it I seemed to 
see her heart, and the thoughts that were gathering on 
her lips. Her face was that of a complete stranger, a 
holy face, and one at that moment glowing with a light 
that enveloped her from the tabernacle door. 

" 'Lord,^ I heard her say, 'my poor life and works 
are so unworthy to oJffer Thee, but if they ever find 
favor in Thy sight, give me the merit of them, for I 
am worse than nothing. But make them aid some 
other soul, to whom they may be a Httle help in Thy 
service.' 

"Then I heard an interior voice saying to me, 'Take 
up your burden without fear; you shall have the 
strength and merit of this soul's toil and prayer.' 

"I came to myself with a start. I thanked God, and 
began my career with a strength not my own. You 
see, my brother, this success you speak of is not mine.'' 

The Bishop had listened attentively. 

"Have you ever seen this nun ?" 

"Never before or since." 

"Do you remember her appearance?" 



32 TOLD BY A BISHOP, 

"I would know her countenance among a thousand. 
I can recall it even as I speak to you." 

^'A strange incident, truly," said the Bishop. ''If I 
did not know you for a man of strongest sense and 
perception, I should call it a dream and question its 
influence." 

"Do not speak so," said the visiting Bishop. "It 
has influenced my episcopal life in its strongest crisis. 
Although I have tried to underrate its effect in my 
pride, I have to acknowledge that it has helped me 
over and over again in the most perplexing moments 
of my life. Do not try to discredit it." 

"Well, I will suspend my judgment," said his host. 
"God uses all instruments for His glory, none more 
powerful than prayer." 

The Bishops parted for the night. Arrangements 
were made for the visitor to say Mass at a neighbor- 
ing academy in the suburbs, where he would be accom- 
panied by one of the resident priests. 

Next morning the visiting Bishop and his companion 
were at the academy mentioned, and the convent Mass 
was said. At the time of Communion the Bishop was 
seen by the chaplain, as he communicated the Sisters, 
to stop, almost drop the ciborium and stagger, as if 
suddenly seized with illness. No one remarked the 
act but the chaplain at his side, and as the Bishop 
recovered himself quickly, no notice was taken of the 
matter. After the Mass was finished the Bishop dis- 
missed the chaplain, and was escorted some time later 
by the reverend mother and assistants to breakfast. 



TOLD BY A BISHOP. 33 

"Mother," said the Bishop, ''you will allow me to 
give all your Sisters my blessing before I leave?'' 

"Most assuredly,'' said the superioress. "It will be 
a great honor, and we appreciate your goodness; we 
only fear we may fatigue you, as we number nearly a 
hundred." 

The Sisters were soon summoned. The Bishop 
received each one kindly and blessed her, looking at 
her keenly. 

When all had retired he said : "I have not see them 
all. Mother, have I ?" 

"Surely you have. Bishop. I have missed no one. 
Have you. Mother assistant?" she said to the nun at 
her side. 

"I think little Sister N was not here," said the 

assistant. 

"Perhaps not," said the superioress. "She is so 
humble, my lord, that no doubt she went at once to her 
cows and chickens, never dreaming she would be asked 
to see so distinguished a visitor or receive his bless- 
ing." 

"Send for her. Mother," said the Bishop kindly. "I 
must not leave one out." 

Sister N was sent for. Confused and lowly, 

she came and knelt at the prelate's feet. Unused to 
the close proximity of rich purple and jeweled cross 
and ring, she could scarcely speak. But when her 
eyes were uplifted and her face was revealed to the 
Bishop, his soul was stirred to its depths, for he sav/, 
as he did at the Communion rail, the face of the nun 



34 TOLD BY A BISHOP. 

whose life offering he had heard years ago, the night 
before his consecration. 

''Mother, I should like to speak to good Sister 

N ,'' said the Bishop, and wonderingly the nuns 

withdrew. 

Still kneeling, it was not long before the humble 
nun had been drawn by the Bishop's questions to speak 
of her inner life as she went about her duties to the 
useful dumb creatures that belonged to the convent 
farm. He saw that her constant prayer, her devoted 
service in the one duty she was supposed to be fitted 
for had raised her to lofty lieights of union with God, 
so that, unknown to herself, it had supplemented the 
offering of her innocent soul which he had super- 
naturally heard, and made her so pleasing to the Most 
High that she had been the unconscious instrument of 
all his success in the vast field of labor his episcopal 
office had made for him. 

With deep yet hidden emotion he blessed the won- 
dering nun, and as her hard and toil-worn hands 
sought his ring, reverently to kiss It, he scarcely was 

able to whisper: ''Sister N , pray for me. Pray 

for the poor Bishop." 

Tremblingly she withdrew, unconscious of the secret 
drama in which she was playing the magnificent part 
God had given her, and overpowered by the thought 
that one so holy and so great had stooped to ask her 
poor prayers. 

The Reverend Mother and Sisters returned to the 
great Bishop. He did not long remain. On his 



TOLD BY A BISHOP. 35 

return to his host's residence, something told of deep 
emotion and strong yet calm feeling. 

As the Bishops separated, their jeweled hands 
clasped, and they looked into each other's eyes. 

"Bishop," said the guest, and his eyes were filled 
with a wonderful light, ''rejoice with me and learn the 
lesson of prayer. I have found the true Bishop of my 
diocese." 



Concerning Joe Wiggins 

I WAS giving a mission in a little Pennsylvania town, 
and, as is always the case in a small place, there was 
considerable stir. The whole population was on the 
move, some through devotion, some through curiosity, 
some antagonistic. 

I had introduced the Question Box and was looking 
over the questions preparatory to answering them. 
One impressed me — "Is the club or the saloon a civil- 
izer or a demoralizer?'' 

While I searched my mind for the best answer, I 
went down town to the only barber shop. Now, Joe 
Wiggins was the barber, a character like Mr. Dooley — 
witty, racy, jolly and wise — and his shop was the 
Mecca of the town for gossip. Wiggins was no 
churchgoer, made no pretensions to sanctity, but was 
a good man; I heard he "ought to be" a Catholic; and 
I determined to make a strong effort for his soul. 

Wiggins was very pleasant, though curt. While I 
was in the chair an old residenter, who had come back 
after some years' absence, dropped in to inquire about 
the townspeople. 

After the customary salutations, the old resident 
asked for John Such-a-one. 

"Down and out; all from booze," said Wiggins 
laconically. 



CONCERNING JOE WIGGINS. 37 

"Don't say ! That's bad ! And where is Tom Such- 
a-one ?" 

''He's down and out; same reason." 

A third was asked for. 

''Down and out; likewise booze." 

"Lud-a'mighty ! what's the matter?" 

"Booze houses let a man down so easy he never 
knows it till he's out," said Wiggins. 

And I thought, as I listened, here is my answer for 
that query, and so I left the shop. 

In the evening, when the audience was assembled, 
the question I have quoted was read out, and 1 said : 

"My friends, let me reply to this question by stating 
a circumstance. I was in the barber's chair this after- 
noon (an observant and intelligent man, by the way, is 
the barber), and Lheard an old resident, just returned 
to the town, ask first about one, then about another, 
and then about another old citizen. The answer was 
always the same : 'Down and out — from booze.' 

"They were gone; they had passed into another 
world, and all that remained to say of them was in 
the striking words of my friend, the barber: 'Down 
and out; all from booze.' 

"My friends, is not this question answered? Need 
I say more ? You know the people of this place. Was 
my friend wrong? I leave you to come to conclu- 
sions." 

I saw I had made a deep impression. The non- 
Catholic wife of the barber w^as present. She had 
been persuaded to come to the lecture by a friend. Of 



38 CONCERNING JOE WIGGINS, 

course, she told her husband on her return home that 
he was honorably mentioned, and the good man was 
pleased with what he called an advertisement, and 
came the next night to show his appreciation. 

He came again and again, and so did his wife. I 
learned he had great influence over his wife and might 
have brought her into the church if he had not been 
careless himself. I determined to talk to Wiggins, so 
I went first to see his wife. She said she was pleased 
with the lectures ; a great many doubts were removed, 
and she would think about being a Catholic ; in fact, I 
got her to acknowledge that if her husband would 
practice his faith she would join him. 

I started for the barber shop. No one was there 
but Wiggins. He was glad to see me, and while he 
ministered to me I told him that I was pleased to see 
him at the lectures. Yes, he had been there, and had 
I not seen his wife? Yes, she was there, too. And 
had I heard correctly that she would be a Catholic if 
he practiced his faith? 

''Who told you that?" said Wiggins. 

''She did. And she is a good woman." 

"She is, indeed," said Wiggins. "Well, she'll never 
have that excuse for not being a Catholic. I'll change 
my conduct and go back to church. I've been think- 
ing about it. Father, ever since you came." 

He was as good as his word. He went to confes- 
sion, and his wife was received into the Church, and 
a neighbor who had gone through curiosity with her 
to the mission received instructions at the same time 



CONCERNING JOE WIGGINS, 39 

and became a convert. So these three souls were led 
to God through the gossip of a barber shop and a 
query from the Question Box, and no doubt by the 
good prayers of those whose hearts are in the glorious 
work of saving souls. 

This mission took place more than a year ago. I 
visited the town lately, and the first one I met was my 
friend Wiggins, now a good Catholic, together with 
his wife, although she met a domestic storm when her 
friends heard of her conversion. 

Lovers of our holy faith, pray for the conversion of 
souls ! Prayer is the uplifted hands that bring God's 
blessing and help to those who go forth to win souls to 
the truth. 



The Choir Boy 

Wherever there is a Sunday school and a train of 
altar boys, methinks, if they heard the following true 
story, some souls might be brought to the Master, and 
a little child would lead them. 

About two years ago, while my choir boys ,were 
standing in the sacristy waiting for services to begin, 
I noticed for several Sunday evenings a little fellow 
about twelve years of age looking in the open door, 
and wistfully and earnestly watching the train of red 
cassocks and white surplices that were ready to march 
into the sanctuary. 

''Who is that boy?'' I asked on the third Sunday 
evening. 

''Father, he's a Protestant. He is Charlie X ." 

I looked around, but Charlie had disappeared. How- 
ever, the next Sunday night he was there, and when I 
went towards him he stood his ground like a man. 
' His big blue eyes widened when I spoke pleasantly 
to him. 

"I am glad to see you, Charlie. Do you like to 
watch the choir boys?" 

"Yes, sir." And an unspoken wish shone on his 
face. He was a bright, manly-looking lad, and I was 
pleased with his appearance. 

After a moment, during which he never took his 
eyes from my face, he said : 




"Father, could I be a choir boy?" — Pckjv .'fl. 



THE CHOIR BOY, 41 

"Could I be a choir boy?" 

"But you don't believe in the Catholic Church, 
Charlie." 

"Won't you give me a chance, Father?" 

The words and the lad's earnest face made a deep 
impression upon me. I turned away to look up a 
spare cassock and surplice in the wardrobe, but 
the boy mistook my movement for a refusal, and was 
turning slowly and sadly away when I called him. 
"Yes, my boy, I will give you a chance ; put these on," 
and I helped him. 

No king robed in ermine could have been more 
grave, even reverent, than this boy when, fully 
equipped in cassock and surplice and hymn book in 
hand, he stood beside a companion in the middle of 
the lines. 

"Now, do as the other boys do," I whispered, as the 
train started into the sanctuary. I watched him from 
the door. He was reverent and attentive, even sur- 
passing his Catholic companions in respectful devotion, 
and listening breathlessly to every word that fell from 
the lips of the priest who preached the evening sermon. 
Sunday nights we have sermons of a doctrinal nature, 
followed by Benediction. Charlie never llagged in 
attention. Every Sunday evening he was there, and 
the boys never once referred to his being a Protestant, 
at least in my hearing. 

One evening he lingered after the boys had said 
good night. 



42 THE CHOIR BOY. 

''Well, Charlie," I said, ''tired of being a choir boy?" 

How he looked at me ! 

"Oh, Father ! No, indeed. But, Father, may I be 
a Catholic?" 

I put my arm around him — I couldn't help it, the 
little face was so serious. "Certainly, my son. But 
your parents must be consulted, and give consent." 

"Why, Father, I brought them to church every 
Sunday to see me in my choir clothes, and mother 
says she would be glad if I were good enough to be a 
Catholic." 

I inquired his address, and I went to see his parents 
soon after this. I found they were unbaptized Pro- 
testants, and, of course, not one of the six children 
had ever been baptized. 

I talked about Charlie, and found both parents were 
not only willing to see Charlie instructed and baptized, 
but wished the same for themselves and the rest of 
the household. 

The end is soon told. 

I instructed the litttle apostle and his father and 
mother and baptized them and all the brothers and 
sisters, eight in all. He was soon confirmed and made 
his First Communion, and then encouraged and helped 
the rest. All are now fervent converts, and the little 
choir boy still is seen each Sunday in the sanctuary, 
rejoicing in his new-found treasure of faith and lifting 
his innocent heart in prayer. 

Who knows but some day he may stand on the 



THE CHOIR BOY, 43 

altar steps and break the Bread of the Word to starv- 
ing souls who are yearning for just such an apostle? 

Friends, pass on this true story. Perhaps some- 
where they may be another father and mother who 
need ''a little child to lead them." 



Doctor Thorn 

"Please don't !^' 

Shrill and piercing rang the childish voice, and there 
was such a depth of indignation and horror in the tones 
that it made the lad pause and stare. 

It was in the city of Philadelphia and at the time 
when long trains of mules dragged the freight cars 
through the streets from the depot to the suburbs to 
meet the locomotive. A long train of these animals had 
emerged from the wide gateway in Ninth street, pull- 
ing a train of cars. As the first car appeared the last 
mule caught its foot in one of the long chains, and by 
its frantic struggles threw the whole string of animals 
into disorder. 

Two or three bystanders were delayed at the 
blocked-up passage, and among them, like a lost white 
dove, stood a tiny little girl, apparently not much more 
than six years old. 

The mule driver was a tall lad, strong and active. 
He seemed furious at the accident, and, swearing volu- 
bly, lashed the mules with a thick whip all along the 
line, until he came to the poor creature with its foot 
caught. He dropped the whip and picked up a heavy 
stick with a nail in it, and with all his strength hurled 
it at the defenseless animal, which reared and plunged 
and trembled as the cruel nail tore a track down its 
flank. A trickling stream of blood began to flow. 



DOCTOR THORN, 45 

The older spectators uttered a low murmur of disgust 
and indignation, but the child, her small arms extended, 
rushed forward, crying: ''How dare you?" 

The fellow stared at her. He was not radically bad, 
but his temper had got the better of him on this as on 
many other occasions. The mule had extricated its 
foot, and stood trembling and bleeding. The child's 
hat had fallen, and, quick as thought, she had pulled 
the dainty white cashmere shawl from her Httle shoul- 
ders, and with flashing eyes was standing almost under 
the mule's feet, trying to staunch the blood. 

'Toor horsie!" she panted. 'Toor horsie!'' 

The driver, with a reddening of his sunburnt face, 
which was rather handsome and intelligent, picked up 
the child tenderly, with the blood-stained shawl in her 
little hands, and put4ier down on the pavement. 

Fresh from loving hands, dainty in her white em- 
broidery, her rich brown curls falling on her shoulders, 
cheeks glowing with excitement, her eyes dilated, her 
little face a very picture of outraged sensibility, she 
was like a vision. She did not struggle as he lifted 
her, but drew back her baby figure like a little queen, 
and with scorn in every feature looked straight into 
his eyes, and flung her childish indignation at him in 
this phrase: 

"You are a bad boy ! God never hits you; and you 
swear r 

Just then a breathless nursemaid rushed into the 
little crowd and, with a cry, caught up the child in her 
arms, kissing her. 



46 ^ DOCTOR THORN. 

"O, 'Queenie/ why did you run off? We were all 
frightened to death!" 

And she bore her off, talking all the way. 

The mules went on ; the cars began to move ; the few 
spectators dispersed. But the driver picked up a little 
ring, a battered turquoise ring, from the street, looked 
around to see if anybody noticed him, then kissed it 
and put it in his pocket, murmuring to himself : ''She'll 
never wear it again; it's mashed up like I am. They 
called her 'Queenie,' and I be blowed if she didn't look 
like a young queen, that baby!'' 

All day long the sweet little face, with its moist gray 
eyes, was before him. All day long he checked the 
rising oath. He was almost tender to the last mule, 
for when he looked at the red line on its flank he 
thought of the words, ''God never hits you, and you 
swear !" 

He was not a low-born, common lad, and he was 
ashamed of himself. Circumstances had forced him 
into his present occupation. That evening he went 
to the superintendent's office and gave up his job, 
saying to himself : "I'll find another and a better one. 
It would break my dead mother's heart if she knew I 
drove mules and swore. God 'hit' me to-day, Queenie, 
but it was with your baby hand." 

At the same hour Queenie sat on her papa's knee in 
her luxurious home and told him how the "poor horsie 
bled when the bad boy beat it. "And," said she, "papa, 
I lost my pretty turquoise ring !" 

"Well, Queen Ann," he replied, as he pushed back 



DOCTOR THORN, 47 

her curls and looked lovingly into the sweet eyes, ''you 
shall have another ring if you promise me you will 
never run under another mule's feet again. Will 
you?" 

''Queen Ann'' puckered up her rosy mouth as she 
shook her curls, and then, with her arms around her 
loving father's neck, she sealed the promise with that 
sweetest of all tributes, an innocent heart's kiss. 

Twenty-five years pass away. The lad of seventeen 
is a man, with a sprinkling of gray on his head. The 
baby girl has bloomed into the maturity of beautiful 
womanhood. They have never met since. 

A November day, soft, hazy and beautiful — a day 
when showers of crimson and yellow leaves fall by 
the roadside. In the city the streets are filled with a 
gay crowd of people, charmed by the last smile of 
autumn. In an attic room of a suburban house, in 

the city of P , lay a sick girl. The whitewashed 

walls on one side sloped to the shape of the roof. A 
little window, hung with a curtain of thin black stuff, 
subdued the light and admitted the warm air. The 
bed was of straw, on a cot, broken, but held up by a 
couple of chairs. A little square piece of carpet lay 
beside it on the floor, while further off another piece 
lay before the washstand, which was only a frame of 
iron wire, holding a tin basin painted blue and an old 
pitcher cracked and seamed with putty. A wooden 
form with two narrow open shelves made a toilet table 



48 DOCTOR THORN. 

and towel rack. The remains of three cane-seat chairs, 
with boards over the seats, stood about the room. 
On one of these was an open vaHse, out of which 
peeped embroidery and painting materials of rich 
quality. There was a grotesque mixture of refined 
taste and incongruous surroundings, a placing of 
things for effect, which pitifully told that the occupant 
of the room knew what the elegancies of life were and 
had once enjoyed them. 

On this November day, when all without Avas mellow 
and radiant, the sick girl lay back on her pillow, just 
where the brightness fell through the little draped 
window. One hand clasped a crucifix of peculiar 
design. Its color was yellow, and there were fourteen 
small, circular insertions of mother-of-pearl upon it, each 
marked with the letters "Sta" and a Roman number. 
The Saviour's figure was of silver. The crucifix was a 
precious relic to its possessor, for it was made of olive 
wood from the garden of Gethsemane, and was en- 
riched with the indulgences of the ''Way of the Cross.'' 
It was intended for the consolation of the sick, as the 
good friend said who obtained this treasure for her, 
and was a mine of spiritual wealth. Poor sufferer, 
it helped her so much to be patient. Just now she 
looked very peaceful, for the atmosphere of prayer was 
about her. A face still soft and round, a chin dimpled 
like a child's, a low, white forehead, blue-gray eyes 
and a sensitive mouth, ever changing, yet always sweet, 
such was the aspect of the girl who lay there quite still 
and all alone. She was accustomed to solitude; there 



DOCTOR THORN. 49 

were few who cared for her, because there were few 
who knew her. Yet that dying girl of seventeen had 
a mind and heart pure and beautiful and a great soul. 
A footstep on the stairs outside brought a gleam of 
brightness to her pale face, and she smiled a greeting 
to the visitor who entered after an emphatic knock. ''I 
am so glad to see you, doctor,*' she said, as she held out 
her hand. 

''Alone again. Always alone. This is outrageous !'' 
And the physician, his clean-cut features darkened by 
a frown, drew one of the chairs to the side of the bed 
and carefully sat down. There was a breadth of fore- 
head in the man's face that told of thought, a firmness 
in the square chin that told of will, and a kindness in 
the brown eyes that told of heart. His face relaxed 
into a smile at the evident pleasure of his patient in 
his presence. 

'T don't feel lonely, doctor," said the cripple. 'T've 
just finished my Stations." 

"Finished your what ?" asked the doctor, with wide- 
opened eyes. 

''My Stations. See this crucifix, and " 

"Oh-h-h!" said the physician, with a shrug of im- 
patience. "You Roman Catholics have such a lot of 
praying arrangements that one must be always pre- 
pared for the unexpected. But, my child," he added, 
seeing the pained look on the girl's face, "if all Cath- 
olics prayed as you do, on their crosses and strings of 
beads, I'd take my chances for 'kingdom come' with 
them. But they don't, half of them, until they come 



50 DOCTOR THORN. 

to die, and then they do the whole business up in a 
hurry; that is, if they get the time. Pray ahead, Mary, 
and put me in the prayers, too. I haven't time to pray. 
You are better to-day. Keep on with the nourishment, 
and don't take any medicine unless the pains return, 
ril give them a raking downstairs for leaving you 
alone so much.'' 

''Please don't, doctor ; they are all so busy. They 
come up whenever they can. Don't say a word, doc- 
tor," pleaded the cripple. ''It does me so much good 
to see you, doctor ; you are so very kind to me. May 
God bless you." And her eyes moistened. 

"Pshaw !" said the doctor, twisting his watchchain 
between his fingers. "I don't see how you can lie here 
for months, in such a place, and never get lonely. 
You won't let me fix it up, either. Such a rickety- 
looking place as it is !" 

"It's good enough, doctor. You know I won't be 
here long, and what is the use of wasting money? 
I'm comfortable and very happy. My religion makes 
up for everything." 

The doctor looked around the little attic, then at the 
sweet, pale face, whistled softly, and said : 

"Well, as I said before, you're a queer set, and if I 
had time I would be an R. C. myself. There is always 
something pulling me in that direction, whatever it is. 
Now, don't begin to preach," he added, as he saw the 
girl's face glow and her lips unclose eagerly. "I must 
be going ; I stay here longer than anywhere else. But 
what are you looking at?" 



DOCTOR THORN, 41 

He had seen her eyes following his fingers twisting 
his watchchain. 

"Ah ! you are looking at this battered little baby 
ring/' he continued. ''Well, the next time I come I'll 
tell you all about it, for it has a history." 

''Perhaps,'' said the invalid, "it will be painful. I 
always fancied that ring belonged to your little daugh- 
ter. I often wished to ask you about it, but I feared 
to sadden you." 

A merry laugh sounded through the room. 

"Bless your heart, no. I am an old bachelor. But 
that baby ring has my life romance in it. It happened 
twenty-five years ago, when I was your age. Wait 
till I come again. Good-by." 

And he was gone — the bright, kind man who had 
done so much to alleviate her sufferings, who had come 
week after week, and paid her rent and brought her 
medicines, and procured her light work, and had 
treated her with such fatherly care that her heart over- 
flowed with gratitude and sent up to heaven daily peti- 
tions that the light of faith might be given to him. 
And as her rosary beads slipped through her thin 
fingers, from which the brush and embroidery needle 
had long since dropped, she prayed to our Lady that 
this manly soul might not perish. 

• • • • • • • 

Mary Thurston was an orphan; a girl finely edu- 
cated and bred, but reduced to poverty by one of those 
reverses that are of such common occurrence in the 
world. She had influential friends in England, her 



52 DOCTOR THORN, 

mother had told her, but of them she knew nothing. 
Only a year ago Dr. Thorn had been called to her 
widowed mother's bedside, and had seen her die, with 
a heart-breaking look fixed on this lonely girl. A kind- 
hearted man (although people who did not know him 
said his name suited him), he pitied the desolate child, 
and did not lose sight of her, for his practiced eye saw 
signs of the paralysis that threatened her. When it 
came he did his best for her, but he knew she would 
soon follow her mother. 

Dr. Thorn's interest in his patient never relaxed, 
and now every day he ran in for a moment or two to 
brighten the little attic with pleasant words that few 
others suspected he could use; wondering why she 
never complained, why she never frowned, never ex- 
pressed any longing to live, never seemed to be lonely, 
although, after the kind, poor people downstairs had 
attended to her simple wants, she was left alone hour 
after hour. The kind-hearted doctor did not know 
that a divine Visitor sometimes came to that little home 
in the early morning and left His peace in that pure 
young heart and made it happy. Though not a Cath- 
olic, Dr. Thorn had little respect for any other creed. 
He thought religion was not a necessity for him, 
because ''he had not time," but, as he told Mary, some- 
thing was pulling him in her direction, whatever that 
something was. 

This and much more did Mary tell the dear Sister 
of Mercy who often called to see her, and who cheered 
her solitude and helped her to pray. At every visit of 



DOCTOR THORN. 53 

the nun, when the usual prayers were over, Mary 
would whisper: ''Now, the 'Salve Regina' for Dr. 
Thorn's conversion,'' and Sister Hilda would utter the 
beautiful prayer aloud and feel herself strangely moved 
to pray for this good man whom she had never seen, 
and whose kindness to a lonely sick girl was the only 
claim to her interest; and in the convent chapel Dr. 
Thorn's name was mentioned many a time in fervent 
petition. 

About a month after the day we have mentioned 
Dr. Thorn had time to tell the story of the battered 
little ring to the invalid, whose changing face and 
breathless interest betrayed her emotion. Of course. 
Dr. Thorn was the lad who drove the mules twenty- 
five years before at the Ninth street depot in the distant 
city. He it was who picked up the little turquoise ring 
that Queenie had dropped and bore it as a talisman 
through his life. The vision of that white-robed child 
and the amazed look of those shocked gray eyes were 
in his dreams constantly, and the clear, bell-like voice, 
with its quaint, childish reproach, rang with an undy- 
ing echo in his memory. 

He told Mary how he had given up his situation 
that very evening ; how he left the city ; how he strug- 
gled against rebuffs and disappointments ; how he was 
employed in a medical college, where his early educa- 
tion was renewed; how, at last, he began to study 
medicine, and after much patience and untold difficul- 
ties took his diploma and began to practice; how he 
steadily gained ground, made himself a name, and 



54 ' DOCTOR THORN, 

now he was above want and far up in his profession. 
"And if I am alone in the world/' said he, ''it is, first, 
because when I began I had not the means to support 
a wife, and, second, because it seems to me that some 
other chapter in my life is to come first, whatever 
it is." 

And then Dr. Thorn laughed, and pushed back the 
iron-gray hair from his handsome brow and stood up 
to go. He had told the story in just ten minutes, and 
had told it in a way some people would have called 
blunt; but Mary knew his great heart and valued his 
confidence. She looked up to him with filial reverence 
and deep devotion, and loved him as she might have 
loved the father she had lost before she was old enough 
to understand. Dr. Thorn knew this, and valued her 
appreciation more than he was conscious of. As he 
bent to shake hands with her, the little ring hung close 
to her eyes. She asked: 

''What became of little Queenie?" 

"I never saw her again, and never expect to. I left 
her hundreds of miles away from here. But what 
would make it easy for me to believe in images, relics 
and such Catholic things is the way I feel about that 
little ring. Good-by.'' 

Mary lay quite still, thinking. Was it not strange 
that such a little thing should have made such a grand 
man as Dr. Thorn? She was somewhat disappointed, 
too. This was not the early life she had pictured for 
her hero. But then she reflected: "The end crowns 
the work,'' The real nobility of the man was there all 



DOCTOR THORN. 55 

the time, waiting to be called forth. She tried to pic- 
ture how sweet and beautiful little Queenie must have 
looked in her impulsive rashness, as she rushed for- 
ward, pleading for the poor mule. Then she thought 
of Dr. Thorn as he described himself at the moment, 
and she began to pray that she might find Queenie, 
and together they would wrestle for this noble soul and 
bring it into the fold. And then, from utter weari- 
ness, she slept. When she opened her eyes two Sisters 
of Mercy were in the room, and from the light she 
knew it was about sundown. She seemed so well and 
talked so brightly that Sister Hilda said: 

''Why, Mary, you must have taken a new lease of 
Hfe." 

And then Mary told the nun the doctor's story. As 
the tale went on in tlie invalid's broken voice a delicate 
flush crept into Sister Hilda's face, and its expression 
was one of far-away thought. As Mary closed she 
looked up to hear the admiration she expected her dear 
Sister to express, but the latter was silent. When she 
did speak, it was in a hushed voice, as if she had been 
disturbed at prayer. 

"It is strange, Mary," said Sister Hilda, ''how many 
ways God takes to bring souls to Him. Let us keep 
on praying for that good doctor. And now it is get- 
ting late, dear, so good-by till to-morrow.'' 

And before Mary had realized it she had pressed 
her hand and noiselessly passed out of the door. Mary 
was disappointed, nay, astonished. Why had her dear 



56 DOCTOR THORN. 

Sister been so- abrupt? She pondered over it, but 
could not solve the problem. 

Night fell, and a wretched night it was for the poor 
sufferer. Her brightness during the afternoon was 
the flickering brightness of a lamp that is going out. 
At sunrise the next morning, when they came to min- 
ister to her wants, they found her so much worse that 
they thought she was dying. Quickly the priest was 
sent for, and her good friend. Dr. Thorn. When the 
latter arrived he knew at once the end was near. Mary 
smiled feebly as he entered. 

"It has come at last, doctor,'' she whispered. ''Won't 
you stay with me till I die ?" 

The doctor nodded his head. Somehow this poor, 
lonely girl seemed very dear to him. He cared for 
very, very few, and he would miss her out of his own 
lonely life. 

The priest knew her well. Her preparation for 
death had begun long ago. Holy Viaticum was re- 
ceived. Extreme Unction and the last absolution given. 
Dr. Thorn watched the whole proceedings. He saw 
the lines of pain in the white face settle into a peace 
which even physical agony could not efface. Then the 
priest said he would send the Sisters to her bedside. 
Mary's eyes told her gratitude. She was not able to 
speak. Dr. Thorn sat beside her, his finger on her 
pulse, his fine face grave and very pale. The silence 
was broken only by the labored breathing of the suf- 
ferer and the subdued movements of the few neighbors 



DOCTOR THORN. 57 

who were there to show charitable sympathy for the 
poor, dying girl. 

Then the Sisters came. One glance was enough. 
Softly moving to the head of the bed, Sister Hilda 
detached poor Mary's cherished crucifix from its nail 
and laid it in the cold hand. Taking a blessed candle 
from the little table she lighted it; then, sprinkling 
holy water on the pillow, she signed the cold forehead 
with the cross, and, kneeling, began to read the beauti- 
ful prayers for the dying. When the clear, sweet, 
bell-like voice rose softly on the hush of the death 
chamber. Dr. Thorn raised his head with a startled 
expression. The nun's face, framed in its close, black 
bonnet, was turned full towards him, every line of it 
absorbed in the solemn and holy duty of the moment. 
The gray eyes were never lifted. 

The Sister prayed and Dr. Thorn listened. What 
was it in that voice and in those prayers? He had 
never felt like this before. God was surely there. 
There was a faith that held out its arms and drew him 
to its heart. He felt the touch of grace, and, bowing 
his head, he murmured ''Credo Y' 

Suddenly there was silence. Mary's eyes opened. 
She tried to smile; then her lips moved. Dr. Thorn 
bent to catch the words, very low and broken : 

"Doctor — I would — be glad — to die if — you could 
try — to believe my faith — Sister and I — have prayed — 
so long. Won't you ?" 

'T'U try, Mary," was the husky answer. And in his 
heart he said : "A second time led by a child." 



58 DOCTOR THORN. 

A radiant look lit up the thin face, then a mute 
glance toward the kneeling Sister, as if she transferred 
the trust to her ; and then a little quiver passed through 
her frame. Again the voice of prayer began, in plain- 
tive, hushed tones. A few more sighs, a long, long 
breath ; another, then stillness. 

''All is over,'' said the doctor, as he rose and ab- 
ruptly left the room. ''Eternal rest grant to her, O 
Lord.'' The old, sweet petitions for the dead fell on 
the awed stillness, and when the last "Amen" was said 
all arose to gaze at the marble face with its closed 
eyes. Each felt it was well with the child, and none 
would dare to wish her back. Dr. Thorn assumed the 
responsibility of the funeral. When it was over he 
lingered a moment at the lonely grave, then bent his 
steps toward the city and wended his way to the con- 
vent. He had thought much since that deathbed scene, 
and thought with him was the herald of prompt action. 
But first he must verify his almost positive certainty. 
He came in sight of the tall building. He knew it 
well, for he had passed it frequently, although he had 
never entered its doors. Nor was his name unknown 
to the Sisters, for they had heard of his goodness and 
kindness from the poor they visited. He entered and 
sent up his card, asking to see the Sister who assisted 
at Mary Thurston's deathbed. 

In a few moments a tall, queenly nun entered with 
quiet step. The sweet serenity and peace of the beau- 
tiful face touched him, and the subdued light of the 
gray eyes flashed conviction on him. He rose. 



DOCTOR THORN. 59 

'1 have called, Sister/' he said, with respectful dig- 
nity, ''to tell the friend of the poor child we buried 
to-day that I intend to keep the promise I made at her 
bedside in your presence. I do believe in her faith and 
yours, and I am resolved this very night to take steps 
towards professing it. But I beg you not to deem me 
impertinent if I ask a question that will throw light on 
a starting point in my life, which hitherto has been like 
a faith of its own. Did poor Mary ever speak of me 
to you r' 

''She did, doctor,'' said the nun gently, "and I have 
helped her to pray for you for a long time past. I 
thank God that a noble mind like yours will at last be 
safely anchored where alone it will find peace." 

"But the question. Sister. It is this: I owe the 
development of all that is good in me to an incident 
that happened twenty-five years ago in a distant city, 
and of which poor Mary has surely told you." 

Sister Hilda bowed her head, and her eye rested 
for a moment on the worn little turquoise ring that 
hung at the doctor's watchchain. The doctor followed 
her look, smiled slightly and then resumed gravely: 

"It seemed to me when I saw you, Sister, at that 
dear child's deathbed, and heard your voice, I knew 
you. Those twenty-five years rolled back, and that 
incident was present and living, and you were the angel 
of the scene. Am I wrong?" 

The nun smiled. 

"Twenty-five years ago, doctor, I was a willful little 
child, much too small to do good to any one." 



6o DOCTOR THORN. 

''But your name," persisted Dr. Thorn; "your first 
name only?" 

''My name was Annie/' said the nun, hesitatingly ; 
"but at home those who loved me called me 
'Queenie.' " 



How She Converted Her Pastor 

In a far-off Western city a popular Protestant 
church was presided over by a devoted rector. This 
rector was a man well read, large-minded and intelli- 
gent ; kind of heart, full of zeal for his Master's house, 
devoted to his parish and generous to the poor. His 
people were, in return, devoted to him, and particularly 
the lady members of his congregation. It was with 
deep sorrow that they noted his health beginning to 
fail, and a movement was set on foot by which he was 
enabled to go to Los Angeles, in California, for rest 
and cure. There were many who paid him visits of 
farewell, and among them a devoted woman who had 
placed much of her time at his disposal in the charit- 
able work of the parish. To her he promised a faith- 
ful correspondence. 

As weeks wore on his letters came regularly to her 
and were promptly answered by his parishioner. Sud- 
denly her keen eye remarked a change. A note of 
religion never heard before, a leaning towards the 
dreaded Church she always hoped he, with her, 
despised and abhorred. There was a ring of "Pap- 
istry" in his expressions, and with his returning health 
came an awful fear on her part that something had 
happened in his soul which had drawn him towards 
"Rome." 

At last she could bear the agony no longer; she 



62 HOW SHE CONVERTED HER PASTOR. 

asked him the question point blank: ''Could he — a 
pastor of the High Church Episcopal — could he have 
gone over to Rome ?" 

The question given, the answer came back promptly, 
and with a glad 'Thank God ! Yes, I am a Catholic. 
I have had time to pray and to study in these long 
weeks. I have read deeply ; I have gone over the dark 
pathways in which Newman groped when he sent forth 
his 'Lead, Kindly Light ;' I have struggled and battled 
with the same convictions ; I saw the way at last. 
Again I fought and prayed. Oh, how I prayed ! And 
the scales fell ofif my eyes. I saw, and I believe. Yes, 
I am a true, sincere Roman Catholic. God be praised 
for His goodness to me !" 

The lady burst into tears when she read this letter 
from her guide and friend. The world seemed dark 
enough to her now, when her light was thus extin- 
guished. Chaos seemed open before her, and gloom 
all around her. Her heart was sad and sorrowful; 
she was like one dazed. The very salt of the earth 
had lost its savor. The path to higher things was 
lost, and her heart cried out because of the defection 
of her revered pastor and guide. What was to be 
done? With a woman's heart and unreasoning logic, 
she determined to leave home and go to him, to show 
him his terrible blunder before his people knew it, to 
implore him to look back on the step he had taken, to 
see his error, to tear aside the influence, whatever it 
was, that blurred his heretofore clear vision and restore 
his own true self again. She was truly sincere in her 



HOW SHE CONVERTED HER PASTOR. 63 

grief, and sincere in her desire to set him on the ''right 
road'' again. 

This woman was upright in her own convictions, 
and had a true heart. She beheved she w^as right, and 
could not imagine whence the baleful influence came 
that so changed a strong man's faith to a creed full of 
''idolatry and superstition." Being in deep earnest, 
she prayed ; prayed daily, hourly, for the strayed shep- 
herd, and then made preparations to go to Los Angeles 
and plead with her recreant pastor. 

But he was to know nothing about it. And so this 
good woman, with a heart full of sorrow and lips mur- 
muring prayer, began her long journey. The days 
passed on and she was soon in Los Angeles, and the 
meeting between pastor and parishioner was one of 
mutual pleasure until the subject of religion was 
broached, and then she told him how her heart had 
bled over his falling away from the purity of faith, 
how she wept over the departure of his soul for "Baby- 
lon," His m.erry laugh jarred upon her sensitive 
spirit, and in pity he began to explain his position, his 
reasons, his convictions. 

At first she was an obstinate lirtener, unyielding and 
determined. But he did not give up. He bade her 
pray, and then she listened. He led her day after day 
with his old strength and irresistible force through the 
paths he had gone over, and because she was sincere 
grace entered her soul. Weeks went by, and she 
began to weaver. She acknowledged gradually what 
she never believed could be possible — the integrity, 



64 HOW SHE CONVERTED HER PASTOR. 

truth, the rights of the Holy CathoHc Church. At last 
she was conquered, and when her old minister brought 
her to a priest and she made her submission to the 
grand old Church that Christ Himself established on 
earth, and declared herself a sincere Catholic, his joV 
was only equaled by her own. She received the sacra- 
ments in due time, and no new-made bride could have 
radiated more happiness, more gladness than this good 
woman. 

''I came to convert you," she said to her former 
minister ; ''to bring you back to Protestantism, but, lo ! 
the tables are turned ; you have converted me. I 
prayed for you, and this is the answer to my prayer. 
I am not afraid to face the whole world in the strength 
of my new-found faith. God be thanked ! His kindly 
light has led me.'' 

She returned to her home, and only two months ago 
God called her to her eternal home in heaven. Her 
death was a great shock to her friend and old pastor, 
who could not but see God's finger in all that had 
transpired. 

He still lives, and we must pause here. We can 
only say what is too well known, that prayer, sincere, 
heartfelt prayer, unlocks the doors of God's grace and 
pours it out lavishly on the earnest seeker after truth. 

"Ask and you shall receive; seek and you shall find." 



The Lady and the Bishop 

It was a social gathering. Not an "affair/' in the 
exaggerated sense of the word, as used by ''the exclu- 
sive set/' but a dignified, elegant assembly of promi- 
nent gentlemen and ladies, ecclesiastics. United States 
Senators and their wives. Among the latter was a 
charming woman, who, as she moved through the 
crowded rooms, was followed by many admiring eyes. 
Suddenly a Bishop of the Catholic Church appeared, 
the royal purple and the episcopal ring distinguishing 
him from all around him. The lady paused in her 
smiling conversation, and advancing towards the pre- 
late gracefully and reverently knelt and kissed his ring. 
There was a lull in the polite hum of subdued conver- 
sation, and when this splendid woman said: 'T want 
your blessing. Bishop,'' the prelate himself was filled 
with surprise. 

"Certainly, my child; but I did not know you were 
a Catholic." 

"Indeed, I am not a Catholic, Bishop, but I was 
reared at a convent school, and my training there was 
so beautiful, and the influence of the nuns so holy, 
that I keep up some of their teachings, you see." 

"And did you never inquire into the religion that 
was the inspiration of all these beautiful teachings?" 
said the Bishop. 

"Oh, yes, indeed, Bishop," said the smiling lady. 



66 THE LADY AND THE BISHOP. 

''but I stopped short when it came to your doctrine of 
transubstantiation. My difficulties are there, and they 
are insuperable." 

"But you still revere the Catholic Church, at least 
in its ministers, I see/' 

*'Oh, yes!" said she. ''I always salute a Bishop 
when I meet him, as I have done you ; and. Bishop, I 
say the prayer the nuns call the 'Angelus' every morn- 
ing, noon and night. I think it so beautiful. I sup- 
pose my piety ceases after that." 

The Bishop looked his surprise, but in giving his 
blessing he said: ''Continue, my child, to say that 
beautiful prayer — the 'Angelus' — and your difficulties 
about the Real Presence will soon vanish." 

With a graceful gesture the lady disappeared, and 
the Bishop thought how hard it is for wealth, and 
beauty, and society — in a word, how hard it is for the 
worldly to turn their whole hearts to God. But he 
prayed for her and saw her frequently after that. 

Years passed on. She was stricken with a lingering 
illness. God's time was at hand, and the reward of 
that little act of reverence, and the fruit of her triple 
Angelus was coming to her. In a moment of grace 
she responded to God's call. She sent for a priest, 
was instructed fully in the faith she had ignored, and 
with most edifying sentiments died a holy and happy 
Catholic death. 



One Night in the Isolated Ward 

It was 7 o'clock in the evening, and the hospital 
bell clanged loudly. The portress went promtply to 
the door, and found there a youth of nineteen years, 
whose flushed face and eyes that burned in their 
sockets like living coals told at a glance their story of 
desperate illness. 

'T want to see the superior," said he. 

The superior was called, and the young man, who 
had been given an armchair, handed her a letter, a 
communication from the principal physician on the 
hospital staff, requesting the superior to admit the 
bearer and place him in the isolated ward, as he had 
every symptom of the dread small-pox. 

Now, at the time of which we write there was no 
municipal hospital in the city, nor was there what is 
called a "pest house.'^ All diseases were sent to the 
Sisters' Hospital, and were there, as is always the case, 
humanely and properly treated. The reason why this 
Sisters' Hospital had an isolated small-pox ward was 
as follows : There was no marine hospital in the city, 
and the authorities had contracted with the Sisters to 
care for the marines, or the river men, who worked for 
the Government. Some ten months before a packet 
had come up the river and was stranded in low water. 
Eight or ten hands, all Negroes, had remained on 
board, waiting for the water to rise. Idling away 



68 ONE NIGHT IN THE ISOLATED WARD. 

the days, small-pox broke out among them, and all 
were stricken. Application was made at the Sisters' 
Hospital, and in pursuance of their contract the Sis- 
ters accepted the cases, prepared a ward entirely apart 
from the hospital proper and appointed the nurses to 
care for the loathsome disease. Several of the men 
succumbed, and under the religious care of the Sisters 
their deaths were holy and happy. The majority of 
the number got well, however, and the ward had been 
cleaned out and fumigated, and had been vacant for 
some time. But here was an occupant, and no time 
was lost preparing a clean, comfortable bed for him. 
He was conducted to the ward and told to prepare for 
a hot bath. 

"There is no use,'' said the young man, ''for me to 
take remedies, for I shall die to-night. I came here 
only to see a priest." 

"But," said the Sister who was placed in charge of 
the patient, "the priest does not live at this hospital. 
He has finished his duties here and gone to the parish 
house, and will not return until early morning, when 
he will say Mass. We shall bring him to you as soon 
as he comes." 

"But it will be too late," said the young man. "I 
shall not be living then. I must see him to-night." 

"Why, the doctor did not say you were in a danger- 
ous condition," said the Sister. "Had you not better 
submit to treatment and wait till morning?" 

"I beg you," said the patient, "I implore you to send 



p 
3 
a. 

5' 

o 



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£r<3 

o 

pi 
o 

o 




ONE NIGHT IN THE ISOLATED WARD, 69 

for a priest. I assure you I will be dead in the morn- 
ing. I am dying now, though you do not know it." 

He did not seem in the slightest danger of immediate 
death, but his manner startled the nun, in spite of her 
convictions. She spoke through the tube used for 
that purpose (for she, too, was isolated) to the 
superior, and urged her to send a messenger for the 
hospital chaplain. The superior rather reluctantly 
complied, thinking the request somewhat unreasonable, 
yet wishing rather to err on the safe side. 

When the nurse told the young man the priest had 
been sent for, he was greatly relieved, and when the 
Sister bathed his feet and saw that he had remedies 
and went to bed, he turned to her and said : 

"I want to tell you why I want the priest. I am an 
orphan since I was twelve years old, and am bound 
out to a farmer who sends me to the market every day 
with a load of produce. This morning I came in as 
usual, and was taken with this sickness. Some friends 
brought me to the doctor, and he gave me the letter I 
brought here. When the doctor said I was going to 
be pretty sick, I told him I knew it, but that I wanted 
first to see a priest. 'Well,' said he, T'll send you 
where you will see a priest and all your religious needs 
will be attended to. Til send you to the Sisters' Hos- 
pital.' I was glad to come, because I believe in Cath- 
olic teachings and was afraid I had waited too long 
before " 

''Then you are not a Catholic?" exclaimed the Sister, 
in amazement. 



70 ONE NIGHT IN THE ISOLATED WARD, 

"No ; I am not of any religion. The people I live 
with have no religion, either. But I want to tell you 
something before I die." 

Here the Sister smiled, for while the young man 
was flushed and feverish, there was no other visible 
sign of the disease, and least of all of death. 

''You don't think I will die? Well, time will tell. 
There is something within me that speaks louder than 
words.'' 

*'But how did you come to want a priest so much?" 
said the Sister, feeling strangely moved. 

"I had two friends. Catholic boys of my own age. 
We met every market day, and they took me to their 
Mass. It was a poor little place, their church, but the 
priest was a fine man ; and when he spoke it went to my 
heart, and I liked to hear him. And when church was 
over the boys explained what the priest said about 
saving your soul. I often thought about it, but had 
no chance to ask any one. About three weeks ago this 
priest told the people that the crowd was getting more 
than the little church could hold, and he wanted to 
build a new church. And he said every little would 
help, and that even a dollar would go into the fund and 
get God's blessing. 'And besides,' said he, T will pray 
every day at my Mass for those who will make their 
ofiferings to the building of God's house, that they may 
have as their reward a happy life and a holy death.' " 

The patient paused a moment, as if hesitating about 
his next communication. 

"And what else?" 



ONE NIGHT IN THE ISOLATED WARD, 71 

"Well/' said the young man, ''I had only a dollar of 
my own, and I walked up to the priest after the Mass 
and I said to him: 'Father, this is all I have, but I 
hope you won't refuse it because I am poor and not 
of your way of believing. Fd like to see that church 
built.' He looked into my face, took my hand and 
said: 'My son, you will not die until you are of our 
way of believing. I shall pray for you every day at 
Mass that you may become a good Catholic' 

"I didn't tell my two friends anything about it, but 
when I found myself getting deadly sick this morning 
I put the horse and wagon in the hands of people that 
I know, and when the doctor said I should come here, 
I was determined to see a priest first of all and find out 
the way to die in the true faith." 

Just here the messenger announced through the 
speaking tube that the chaplain had arrived and was 
about coming to the patient. The Sister told the 
young man, and he was overjoyed. 

She went to the little room adjoining the ward and 
met the priest, to whom she briefly told the circum- 
stances. 

The chaplain was soon at the bedside of the patient. 
A few questions brought out the fact that he had never 
been baptized, and as he insisted, with a pertinacity 
that was remarkable and impressive, that he was going 
to die, the chaplain, after asking a few questions, bap- 
tized him. 

"There are some other sacraments," said the young 



^2 ONE NIGHT IN THE ISOLATED WARD, 

man. "I heard them talked about in church. Can't 
I be anointed, and could I receive Holy Communion ?'' 

The chaplain was amazed. He questioned the young 
man, and obtained a detailed account of his life; and 
after instructing him for some time, proposed waiting 
until the morning, as there was no apparent danger, 
and he would come a little earlier to say his Mass. It 
was now after ii o'clock. 

''Father," pleaded the young man, 'T want so much 
to be an entire Catholic ; it will be too late in the morn- 
ing. Something tells me so. Won't you do every- 
thing before you go?" 

The priest hesitated, and then, unable to withstand 
his own conviction that here was a most extraordinary 
case, told the patient he would anoint him and give 
him Holy Viaticum. 

Most reverently did the poor youth receive these 
sacraments. When all was over and the priest was 
about to leave, he suggested some aspirations that 
might comfort the patient during the night. Finally 
he said : 

'T will see you early in the morning. Good-night, 
my son.'^ 

''Good-night, Father, and good-by. And I thank 
you from my heart." 

The Sister sat quietly at a little distance from the 
bed, her beads in her hands. The clocks chimed out 
midnight, and then the small hours. Every now and 
then the young man would repeat aloud the aspirations 
the priest had suggested over and over again. About 



ONE NIGHT IN THE ISOLATED WARD. 72, 

3 o'clock he was silent, and the Sister went over to the 
pillow, hoping he had fallen asleep. One glance told 
her pacticed eye that the agony of death was there. 
She repeated the prayers for the departing soul, and 
within the brief hour he had passed away in his white 
baptismal robes to the presence of his Father in heaven, 
who had won this guileless soul, and by ways men can 
never understand brought him through the dark valley 
of death surrounded by all the graces of redemption. 

The Sister closed his eyes, folded his hands over 
the crucifix that lay on his breast and softly left the 
room, breathing a ''De Profundis." 

It was nearly 5 o'clock as she passed the great time- 
piece in the corridor, and although it was so early, she 
saw the familiar figure of the chaplain advancing 
towards her. 

"I could not get our patient out of my head all 
night," said the priest, ''so I have come early. How 
is he this morning?'' 

"He is with God," reverently said the nun. "He 
died at 4 o'clock." 

Was it because he was a lonely orphan that our 
Father in heaven opened Flis arms and gave him this 
intuition of death? Was it the clean, honest example 
of those Catholic working boys that made him think 
of his soul? Was it his own humble charity that 
prompted him to help with his mite the building of 
God's temple? Or, most of all, was it the divine effi- 



74 ONE NIGHT IN THE ISOLATED WARD. 

cacy of the Holy Mass, wherein his name was men- 
tioned, that procured this happy death ? 

We know not, we dare not say. But we know that 
all of these things are tremendous forces impelling the 
soul towards a glorious salvation. 

Let those who read ponder over this true story. 



Kitty 

He was a wealthy man. Fortune had smiled upon 
him. He had a prosperous business, a luxurious home 
and several beautiful daughters ; but since he had mar- 
ried his Protestant wife, nearly thirty years before, he 
had forsaken the faith of his childhood and become 
what is known as a backslider. He had never ap- 
proached the sacraments since. Still, his daughters 
had gone to the convent school and were reared in 
the faith; moreover, he had two saintly sisters who 
were nuns and who constantly stormed heaven for 
their brother's conversion all these years. So far all 
seemed in vain. 

If there was one of his children the merchant loved 
better than the rest, it was his brown-eyed, curly- 
headed Kitty; and Kitty was the most pious and de- 
mure of the whole family, and she idolized her father. 

As years passed by and Kitty grew to young 
womanhood, a fervent Catholic, the defection of her 
idolized parent preyed on her soul. Her mother had 
never been a Catholic and Kitty looked for a miracle 
some day, because she was so good, and God would 
reward that. But to think that her dear father had 
been for so many years a Catholic, and now was grow- 
ing older and harder in his refusal to return to the 
Church of his fathers, was a trial that nearly broke 
her heart. And it was of no use to speak of it. Every 



^(i KITTY, 

other subject was tolerated and encouraged, but this 
was a forbidden topic. No one was permitted to speak 
of rehgion to the prosperous merchant. 

One day Kitty announced to her father she was 
going to enter a convent. Had a bolt of thunder fallen 
out of a clear heaven at his feet he could not have been 
more horrified. Storming, threatening, tears, caresses, 
entreaties were useless, and after many weary scenes 
Kitty became a novice in a neighboring convent. When 
the step was taken the merchant seemed harder and 
more unapproachable than before ; but his love for his 
daughter impelled him to visit her, and each visit con- 
vinced him of her increasing happiness, and while she 
never breathed the forbidden subject, her soul unceas- 
ingly prayed for his conversion. 

One day word was sent him she was sick and was in 
the convent hospital. He flew to her bedside and 
found her very ill indeed. He begged to have the best 
medical skill, the latest appliances ; and all he asked 
was granted. Everything money could control was 
brought to bear on her illness, but she grew steadily 
worse. All her family had visited her, and to their 
anxious tears the physicians could only reply: ''No 
one can tell ;'' but to each other they said, ''She cannot 
survive." 

Kitty's father hovered silently about the bed with a 
broken heart. White as a liily the thin face lay on its 
pillow, and the curly head he loved seemed sO' inex- 
pressibly dear that he felt as if he could not face the 
reality. 



KITTY. 77 

''Oh, Kitty!'' he moaned; ''don't die, my child! I 
can't stand it!" 

She opened her brown eyes and her lips moved. 

Looking straight into his face she whispered dis- 
tinctly: "I won't die, papa, if you come back to the 
Church and be a good Catholic." 

"Oh, I will, Kitty," sobbed the father; "I will. I 
promise you, may God help me." 

A faint smile hovered on Kitty's face. The look of 
anguish and the ghastly color of death seemed to van- 
ish. She closed her eyes and silently and long her 
father knelt beside her, registering his vow in heaven. 
The physicians came, felt her pulse, and a bright look 
came into their faces. They motioned the father into 
another room. 

"There is a change for the better," they said to him. 
"The crisis is past. We will let nature perfect her 
condition. It was a close call." 

He did not reply, but his heart told him he knew 
more than the physicians. 

Kitty got well. Her father redeemed his promise, 
and when she was able to resume her religious apparel 
he came to her and told her he had made his peace 
with God. He had returned to the house of his 
Father. 

Kitty is still living, and so is her venerable parent. 
He has remained steadfast and is a fervent Christian 
Catholic gentleman. More than one marble tablet 
has recorded (to his chagrin) his deeds of charity and 
generosity to God's house and God's poor, but he 



78 KITTY. 

awaits his last call with faith and humility, helping 
where he can his daughter in her cherished vocation, 
and making good the years he passed out of the fold. 

The scene in that hospital room is stamped on the 
memory of father and daughter and is recorded by the 
angels of God. 

Who will deny the apostolate there fulfilled? 

"More things are wrought by prayer than this world 
dreams of." Pray, then, daughters of parents who 
have drifted with the world away from the old Church. 
Pray for their conversion, and your faith shall be 
rewarded. 



A Brother's Prayers 

In the great city of Chicago one afternoon two 
Sisters of Mercy on a sick call, in their close black 
bonnets and long cloaks, were passing swiftly and 
silently along a quiet street. Standing on the steps 
of a respectable dwelling, watching them coming 
towards her, was a little girl. As they passed without 
having noticed her, she sprang after them, and when 
near enough she whispered: 

''Dear ladies, we are not Catholics, but papa is so 
sick we are afraid he will die, and won't you ask God 
to spare him to us ?'' 

"Where is he?" said the Sister. 

"We live there,'' said the child, pointing to the 
dwelling which she had just left; "but papa hates 
Catholics so much that he might frighten you with his 
temper, and besides he might be angry at me if he 
thought I asked you in. Just drop in by accident and 
don't let on you know he is sick." 

The Sisters smiled and went their way. 

Their errand accomplished, they were on their way 
back when an inspiration entered the heart of the 
senior Sister, who said to her companion: 

"Here is a soul to save ! In the name of our Lord, 
let us strive for it. We will visit that child's father. 
Something impels me to do so." 



8o A BROTHER'S PRAYER, 

'1 have the same thought/' said the other. ''Let 
us pray that we may accompHsh some good." 

In silence they proceeded and soon reached the 
house. They entered the vestibule and touched the 
bell. There was no response. Then they knocked 
gently at the door of a room. 

''Come in/' said a masculine voice. 

They entered, and in the rear of a pleasant apart- 
ment which was fitted up as a bed room they saw a 
rather handsome man sitting up in bed and reading 
a newspaper. He was far gone in consumption. At 
sight of his visitors a furious expression overspread 
his face, pale and emaciated as it was. Raising his 
voice, he cursed horribly. 

"What are you doing here?'' he raved. "Get out 
of my house! I want none of your kind!" 

"I beg your pardon," said the senior Sister. "We 
were visiting the sick, and hearing you were ill, we 
thought it would cheer you to receive a friendly call. 
In a long and weary illness a gentleman like you must 
miss the activity to which he is accustomed, and be 
pleased to receive an occasional visitor." 

The soft tones of the speaker, her refined manner 
and quiet disregard of the violence of his reception 
rather shamed the invalid. 

"Well, if you don't talk of any cursed religion I 
shall tolerate you. That is if you are not after money, 
for I have none to spare. But I warn you if you talk 
about religion it will take very little provocation to 
make me send a bullet into you. I keep this (holding 



A BROTHER'S PRAYER. 8i 

Up a revolver) under my pillow to frighten away 
intruders. I am a sick man, and I won't be irritated." 

Showing no sign of fear, and even smiling faintly, 
the Sister, still standing, replied: 

''Oh, we won't talk religion, and we don't want 
money. We only want to relieve the tedium of a long 
sickness by some pleasant words and, perhaps, by 
bringing you something you might like. Sick people, 
we find, very often relish something that a friend 
brings more than anything they get at home, no matter 
how delicious. We have a Sister in our hospital diet 
kitchen who makes delightful gelatines and jellies. 
Some day we shall drop in and leave a little for you, 
if you will accept it." 

"If you'll guarantee not to poison me," growled the 
invalid. 

Again the Sister smiled, or rather laughed — a soft, 
merry laugh. And it must have been contagious, for 
the sick man's face wore the ghost of a smile. 

"But," continued the Sister, "we have intruded too 
long. You must pardon us. We live at the convent. 
Forty-ninth street, and if you happen to wish us to 
call before we come uninvited, just send word. We 
shall be so glad to come. And now, good-by. I do 
hope you will soon get better." 

And the Sister gave her hand to the sick man, and 
with a sympathizing smile turned towards the door. 

As she turned she faced the sick man's wife, who 
drew back in surprise. 

"We have just had a few pleasant words with Mr. 



82 A BROTHER'S PRAYER. 



said the Sister. "We heard he was sick and 



were so glad to call. You know it is one of our duties 
to visit the sick." 

"Why," faltered the wife, "I did not know any one 
was here. We don't leave my husband alone often." 

"Well," said the Sister, "I am afraid we disturbed 
him some, but he knows now we had the best motives 
in coming. And we shall pray for him at home every 
day, that he may not suffer, but soon recover and be 
about again. Good-by." 

And the Sisters quickly passed out of the house. 

"Here is a subject for earnest prayer," agreed the 
Sisters on their way home. And when they arrived 
at the convent and told their story earnest and fervent 
appeals were made in their little chapel that God might 
take pity on this poor soul. 

Sister Esther, who had charge of the visitation of 
the sick, prayed most of all. She waited day after 
day, hoping that a spontaneous call would come from 
the invalid. She felt sure that in his long hours of 
weariness he would desire some novelty. Why not a 
visit from the nuns ? 

She was right. 

Mrs. T had been a Catholic, but had gradually 

fallen away from the Church after her marriage. Her 
husband was a violent hater of all religions, and as 
for anything Catholic, to mention the word was suffi- 
cient to drive him into an insane fury. Indeed, he 
often flourished his revolver and threatened to shoot 
and abide by the consequences if religion were men- 



A BROTHER'S PRAYER. 83 

tioned. The wife's surprise, therefore, at seeing the 
nuns almost took her breath away, and she was 
cautious never to mention the subject again. 

Two weeks had elapsed since the Sisters' visit, and 

Mr. T was more irritable than ever. Nothing 

seemed to please him. One sunny day he sat in his 
chair at the window and saw two Sisters pass along 
the street. They didn't as much as glance at the 
house. 

"Just like them," snarled the invalid ; "after promis- 
ing to call again, too! Guess I scared them half to 
death." 

"Call again !" exclaimed the wife, quick to catch 
the note of desire in his voice. "Do you want them to 
call, Thomas ? I think they would be glad to come ; at 
least that Sister said so." 

"Then why don't they?" he snapped. "Talk is 
cheap." 

"Suppose I ask them?" said she. 

"Don't you dare!" he shouted. "I don't want 
them." 

"Very well, dear," said his wife, and there was a 
little sigh back of her voice. She knew his thoughts, 
and she knew her own, but she did not dare express 
them. 

The next morning Mr. T was a little worse than 

usual and more irritable. 

"Marian," he remarked, "those nuns said something 
about their hospital. I wonder if they have any cases 
like mine there?" 



84 A BROTHER'S PRAYER. 

"Surely, Thomas, you don't mean to go to a hos- 
pital?'' 

"Who said I did ? But maybe they know something 
that might reHeve this infernal cough. I have rest 
neither night nor day, and I wouldn't give a button 
for the doctor's medicine. It has done me no good." 

His wife said nothing. What could she say? She 
and her little daughter were worn out trying to relieve 
the poor sufferer, who really was greatly to be pitied, 
especially during his "bad spells." She sat down near 
the window. She saw her husband get the telephone 
book. 

"Forty-ninth street," he muttered. "Yes, here it is. 

Here, Marian, call them up. Say Mr. T wants 

those Sisters who called on him once to call again." 

The amazed wife mechanically took the book and 
called up the convent. Promptly came the answer: 

"Sister Esther will come down to see you this after- 
noon." 

On hearing this news Mr. T quieted down and 

actually slept a while. After dinner he was alert, 
evidently waiting for his expected visitors. 

Ere long a gentle tap at the door was heard, and 
Sister Esther and her companion entered and greeted 
the sufferer as if he were an old friend. Moreover, 
they brought him a dainty glass of gelatine and assured 
him he would relish it. Not a word was spoken on the 
forbidden subject, but half an hour was spent talking 
on many topics in which the Sisters skilfully found he 
was interested. 



A BROTHER'S PRAYER, 85 

When the Sisters rose to go Mr. T expressed 

regret and actually asked their pardon for his rudeness 
on the first occasion. ''But/' said he with rising ex- 
citement, ''I thought you wanted to talk religion to me, 
and if you knew all IVe had of it in my life, and how 
I hate the word, you wouldn't blame me.'' 

''Come, now," said Sister Esther, "we won't part 
with disagreeable topics on our lips." 

"Won't you come soon again?" asked Mr. T . 

"You don't know how lonely I am. People are afraid 
of consumptives." 

"Yes indeed we will come; perhaps next week." 

"Oh, not so far off as that," said he. "Couldn't you 
come to-morrow?" 

"To-morrow?" echoed the Sister. "Why, you 
would get very tired of us at that rate." 

"I don't think he would," said his wife. "He has 
spoken about you several times." 

"Well, then, the day after to-morrow." And again 
Sister Esther held out her hand. 

Mr. T kept it a moment, and Sister Esther saw 

one point was scored. 

On their return home prayer was renewed. Every 
one was interested in the sick man's case; every one 
longed to see this poor soul reconciled with God and 
restored to grace. 

The promised visit was paid and others followed, 

and Mr. T grew restless and irritable if the Sisters 

were delayed. Finally Sister Esther having secured 
a foothold, she began to speak of his soul. He changed 



86 A BROTHER'S PRAYER. 

color, but did not fly into a rage. She made little 
impression. Still, on leaving she told him a friend of 

hers meant, if Mr. T had no objection, to call next 

day, and Mr. T must keep him until she arrived. 

Mr. T would be pleased, he said, to meet any 

friend of hers, and so they parted. 

Next day Father W called on Mr. T at 

the hour the Sisters usually came. He was a fearless, 
athletic man, young and pleasant faced, whose interest 
had been won by the earnest appeals of Sister Esther. 
He had been told about the revolver. 

Sure enough, as soon as the sick man saw the Roman 
collar he drew the weapon from his pillow and, point- 
ing it at the priest, shouted : ''Get out of my house ! 
You are a Romish priest! Get out or Til shoot!" 

''No, you won't,'' said Father W . And, spring- 
ing towards the bed, he wrested the revolver out of 

the weak hands. "Don't, Mr. T ," he pleaded. 

"Don't excite yourself. Be reasonable. I want to be 
your friend. I am not at all offended by your recep- 
tion.'' 

Curses, horrible curses, were the only answer, but 
they exhausted- the invalid and he fell back on his 
pillow. The priest administered a restorative, which 
the trembling wife provided; and just then the Sisters 
entered the room. 

The patient could not show anger before the quiet 
concern of Sister Esther. He could only say, in a 
weak voice : 

"So this is your friend !" 



A BROTHER'S PRAYER, 87 

"Yes/' said Sister Esther, "and I know he will be 
yours. Get him to talk to you on athletics/' 

The incongruity of the subject, in view of Mr. 

T 's exhaustion, due to the encounter just passed, 

touched the humor of every one present. Father 

W emitted a peal of hearty laughter, which was 

so contagious that the Sisters joined in it, and even 
the sick man laughed. The ice was broken and the 
priest was so agreeable that when he arose to depart 
the invalid invited him to return. 

This was the beginning. Father W followed 

up his advantage, and in a few visits won the confi- 
dence of the dying man. One afternoon Mrs. T 

spoke of her husband's hatred for religion and he told 
the story of his life. His early years were spent in 
goodness and piety, and he set his heart on becoming 
a priest. His parents (long since dead) rejoiced at 
giving their son to God, and he entered the seminary. 
His studies had led him as far as mnnor orders, when 
suddenly a serious skin disease appeared. To his con- 
sternation and grief he found that the malady would 
not yield to remedies. Through some misunderstand- 
ing or error he was supposed not to have sought them 
sufficiently, and he was given to understand that his 
seminary course must be abandoned. His parents were 
poor, and he dared not go to them and disappoint them. 
He was filled with despair and bitterness. He left in 
anger. The trial was too much for him, and he cursed 
God! A fellow-student, who pitied him, helped him 
all he could, recommended him to a physician friend in 



88 A BROTHER'S PRAYER, 

a distant city, gave him money and implored of him 
to get cured and return. But so many efforts had 
been made to cure him, and had failed, that he had 
lost all hope. 

However, he went to the distant city and was finally 
cured. With the joy of returning health came the 
renewed bitterness of disappointment. He obtained a 
situation and prospered ; but he had lost his faith, never 
spoke of the Church but to curse it, became a Mason, 
and, as his worldly goods increased, became more and 
more antagonistic to everything Catholic. 

He married a Catholic wife, but she was too weak 
to hold to her religion, and their little daughter was 
sent to the public school. Strange to say, the child 
loved the Catholic Church and longed to go to the 
Sisters' school, but was never permitted to speak of 
such a thing. She watched the Sisters, and when her 
father grew so ill that he was mostly confined to bed, 
she spoke to them the day our story opened, and thus 
made the first step towards her parent's salvation. He 
never knew this, however. 

When the long story was ended the priest consoled 
him, and with kind and manly words poured into his 
soul a flood of strength and hope in God's mercy. He 
told him plainly he was near death, and he must be 
saved. He begged him to forget the past bitterness 
and to return to the Good Shepherd, who had sought 
him out with such unflagging effort. The dying man 
listened and finally said: 

"I don't know why it is, Father W , but there 



A BROTHER'S PRAYER. 89 

has been all these years an invisible hand that has kept 
me back from even worse things than I have done and 
a voice within which seemed to plead with the Lord to 
spare me till I should make my peace with Him. And 
I will follow its counsel. Father, I think I will go to 
Confession ! Come to-morrow and I will be ready.'' 

Father W was overjoyed. At last the fervent 

prayers not only of the Sisters, but of his own heart, 

were answered, for Mr. T was an educated man, 

a fine talker, an engaging companion and his account 
of his early life had touched the very heart of the priest 
and emphasized his desire to win the man's soul. 

The next day Mr. T made his Confession, and 

peace and content shone on his face. Shortly after- 
wards he received Holy Viaticum and Extreme Unc- 
tion, and then lay patient and resigned, waiting for 
death. 

The Sisters visited him daily, and so did Father 
W . 

One day a strange priest entered the room. 

"You do not know me, Thomas f said he. 

The dying man looked at him. 

"Can it be — Fred, my old friend of the seminary?" 

"The same," said the stranger. "I came to Chicago 
this morning. I knew you were here. I got the 
directory and found your name and your home, and 
I have come to see you. And how do I find you?" 

"Oh, my faithful friend !" said the sufferer, brokenly. 
"The years have worked strange havoc with me. I 
have gone far from my Father's house. I have been 



90 A BROTHER'S PRAYER, 

a prodigal son. But He sought me out and brought 
me back in His tender arms. I have been lost and am 
found again." 

'Thomas/' said the visitor, ''you were hardly dealt 
with when we were students together; but you 
have come to your own. They acknowledged to me 
that they might have been more considerate, but it 
was all for the best. Thousands of prayers and Masses 
have been offered for you. I have never passed a day 
without mentioning your name in the Holy Sacrifice 
of the Mass.'' 

^'Oh, my more than brother !" said Mr. T ■, 'T 

felt it. I knew some one was fighting for me before 
God, and it was you! To you I owe my salvation. 
Wait with me for the end." 

Only a few days passed. One calm evening as the 
sun went down and the soft summer breeze parted the 
curtains of that chamber they knelt around his bed. 
Two priests were there and the weeping wife and child. 
His friend of the long ago, who had knelt beside him 
in the seminary chapel, wiped the death dew from 
his clammy brow and raised his anointed hand in 
absolution as the solemn and sacred prayer of the 
Church fell on his failing senses : 

"Depart, Christian soul, in the Name of God the 
Father, who created thee " 

One long, shivering sigh and the ransomed spirit 
fled from the suffering body, redeemed, saved, through 
God's infinite love and a spiritual brother's faithful 
prayers. 



A BROTHER'S PRAYER. 91 

Oh ! the length and breadth of the mercy of God, 
that gathered to the Sacred Heart this worn and weary 
spirit, this much tried being, this precious human soul. 
Surely ''if there shall be joy in heaven over the con- 
version of a sinner,'' there were glad rejoicings on 
that day. 

The wiie and child were soon restored to Holy 
Church, and the Sisters in the convent as they knelt 
before the altar in their beautiful, silent chapel offered 
their grateful prayers and thanksgivings. 



The Fruit of a Single Mass 

Some years ago, in the hill country of Western 
Pennsylvania, two wealthy farmers — brothers — owned 
their broad acres side by side. They were of the 
sturdy stuff of which pioneers are made — men of 
intelligence, shrewdness, fine moral training and 
physical strength. They loved nature and higher 
things, were God-fearing, and had a thirst for books 
hard to satisfy in the remote mountains where their 
lifework held them. 

Respected by all, they reared large families, and our 
story deals with one son, who was the favorite of his 
father and the godson of his uncle. He grew up the 
very life of both families, and perhaps somewhat 
spoiled, for when he was still in his teens he insisted 
on leaving the happy, wholesome life of the farm and 
his comfortable home and going West to seek a great 
fortune. Affectionate remonstrance was of no avail, 
and at last he departed for the great West, amid the 
prayers and tears of those who loved him. 

At first accounts came at regular intervals. He was 
faithful to his religion, the same devoted Catholic, the 
same affectionate son and brother. But as years rolled 
by less was heard of the absent one, and finally news 
came not at all. 

Decades of years rolled by and changes came to the 
old homestead. One by one the children passed out of 



THE FRUIT OF A SINGLE MASS. 93 

it, and to the boy's father reverses came and the old 
home went out of his possession. The boy was now a 
middle-aged man and was fast verging on the period 
when he should rest and enjoy the remainder of his 
years. 

He had made an ample fortune in the lead mines, 
but at the expense of his health. Soon it was 
rumored the wanderer was coming home to die, and 
the remaining kinsfolk and neighbors found their 
hearts stirred to welcome him. He had bought back 
the old homestead and meant to make his aged father 
happy; and the pathetic fact that he was returning 
broken in health, but full of love for "the old place," 
gave an added strength to the feelings awakened. 

And he came back, and with him his Western wife. 
She was a large, brusque woman, not attractive to the 
warm-hearted mountain people, but she was made wel- 
come. They had no children, and it was found that 
she was a bitter Protestant, and that her husband had 
lost his faith. At first this fact was mourned in silence 
and shocked surprise. Excuses were found in the ill 
health that was only too apparent; but when long 
months went by and neither husband nor wife ever 
appeared at church, some of the kindred ventured on 
gentle remonstrance, which was received with angry 
resentment. The aged father had given up persuasion 
and advice long before, and finally when the good 
pastor of the parish had called and had been rudely 
rebuffed, the old friends and relations shook their 
heads and mourned that one so near the grave should 



94 THE FRUIT OF A SINGLE MASS. 

realize so little the awful account demanded by God 
for a wasted life. Time rolled on, and the unfortunate 
man was scarcely able to appear on the streets of his 
native town without danger of collapse, but he still 
ventured forth, bargained with his neighbors for pro- 
duce or stock and seemed oblivious of his fast failing 
condition. His resentment when religion was men- 
tioned was so bitter and profane that at last his nearest 
relatives shunned the house. 

His uncle and godfather, however, would not allow 
his insulted feelings to get the better of his interest and 
charity, and continued to visit him. The aged father 
of the obstinate sinner met his death one day by falling 
from a wagon, but had time to receive the sacraments 
and depart from this life in holy peace. His son was 
not at the death-bed, nor, to the indignation of the par- 
ish, did he go to the church for the funeral Mass. 

But it was noticed after this he seemed to grow more 
feeble, and was not so often seen in the street. Finally 
he did not appear at all, and rumor said he had become 
worse and was confined to bed. To all who paid him 
a short visit and did not speak of religion he was civil 
and even pleasant, and his wife was the same. She 
seemed to have a weary look to those who noticed her, 
but she never made complaint. One day the god- 
father and uncle of this man visited him, and seeing 
from his appearance he surely had not long to live, and 
fearing to throw him into a paroxysm of rage by men- 
tioning his soul, left the house, full of sadness. Meet- 



THE FRUIT OF A SINGLE MASS. 95 

ing his own pious wife, he voiced the sorrow that 
filled him. 

''Let us have a Holy Mass offered for him," said she, 
"and both of us will attend and pray for him !" 

'That is a good idea," said her husband. "I will 
go at once and speak to the priest." 

He started off to the rectory and in about an hour 
returned home much comforted. He told the pastor 
his trouble and the priest promised to say Mass next 
morning for his nephew. 

Bright and early at the church, the two charitable 
Christians attended next day, and with great fervor 
assisted at the Sacrifice of the Altar, which was offered 
for this poor, impenitent, dying relative. 

Some hours passed away and both resumed the daily 
duties of life, when they saw from the window the wife 
of the wanderer coming to the house. It alarmed 
them, but she only said : 

"Michael wants to see his uncle, and asked me to 
call for him." 

"Is he worse?" 

"Oh, no ; if anything he is better !" 

"I will go," said Mr. K , and he started at once, 

but with some misgivings as to his reception. 

On entering the invalid's room the sick man 
stretched out his hands and said with a smile : "Uncle, 
I want you to do me a favor." 

"What is it, Michael?" 

"Would it be too much trouble for you to get me the 
priest?" 



96 THE FRUIT OF A SINGLE MASS, 

''Trouble!" exclaimed his uncle. "No, indeed! I 
will go for him myself." 

"I thought so," said his nephew ; ''that is the reason 
I sent for you in preference to anybody else. Besides 
I feel so well to-day!" 

"Thank God !" said Mr. K . "I will go at once, 

Michael." 

He did not trust himself to say another word, but 
left the house without speaking to either the invalid's 
wife or his own, who was standing in the doorway of 
his house as he passed. Ere long the good pastor, 
who was rejoiced at the news, stood at the bedside of 
the sinner who had resisted every grace, apparently, 
and seemed to have no thought about dying in his sins. 

"Father," said the man, "I am thankful 3^ou came 
to me. / was at your Mass this morning, and felt its 
graces pour into my soul, leaving me humble and 
repentant and longing to make my peace with God !" 

"You were at my Mass ?" said the astonished priest. 
"I didn't know you were even aware I offered Mass 
for you!" 

"Nor was I," said the invalid, "but I saw you plainly 
at the altar, and the grace of the Holy Sacrifice has 
so worked in my heart that I am ready to make my 
confession of forty years." 

Needless to say, the priest blessed God secretly, and 
in amazed delight at this unspeakable favor of heaven, 
heard the poor man's confession. 

He was long in the room, and after it was over he 
called the invalid's wife and told her how God had 



THE FRUIT OF A SINGLE MASS. 97 

given her husband this wonderful grace; and the in- 
vaHd himself expressed such joy and gratitude that 
tears ran down her cheeks. 

As he seemed so bright and well the priest promised 
to return next day with the Blessed Sacrament, but 
the invalid said: ''No, Father, do not delay; I may 
seem better, but I w^ant to receive Holy Viaticum; 
death is not far off !" 

The priest 34elded to his desire, and went for the 
Blessed Sacrament and the holy oils. 

The fact that the priest had visited this hardened 
sinner soon spread through the little village, and he 
was met by many good people, whose inquiries he 
answered with a glad acquiescence that he had made 
his peace with God. 

When he returned with the Blessed Sacrament a 
reverent crowd follov/ed and assisted in an ante room, 
while Michael received Holy Viaticum and Extreme 
Unction, tears of contrition rolling down his cheeks. 

When all was done, sympathetic neighbors pressed 
around him to congratulate him. Verily it w^as like 
the feast for the prodigal son ! He begged pardon for 
the scandal he had given in his native place, protesting 
that his faith had never died, but was only dormant, 
having been crusted over by his free life in the West. 
He declared he had seen his pastor in the old church, 
from which he had been absent for so many years, say- 
ing Mass for him. He described the color of the vest- 
ments, and again averred that the graces that flowed 
from the Holy Sacrifice v;ere like an irresistible torrent 



98 THE FRUIT OF A SINGLE MASS. 

that broke down all before it. He wanted to know 
how it was that the Mass was for him. His uncle 
stepped forward. 

''Michael, I had the Mass offered for you, and your 
aunt and myself were there and prayed for your con- 
version.^' 

"Then, uncle, to you I owe the means of my salva- 
tion. That single Mass won my soul from perdition !'' 

In the middle of that night he died, suddenly and 
painlessly. His wife, who was watching by his bed, 
only heard a long-drawn sigh and found that the end 
had come. 

Such was the wonderful conversion wrought by a 
single Mass ! Nor was that all. His wife asked to be 
instructed and baptized, and is to-day a fervent con- 
vert. 



The Apostolate of a Little Maid 

When I first became acquainted with Maggie she 
was a red-haired, good-humored girl of nineteen. Her 
face was full of freckles and her eyes were bright blue, 
and the wildest stretch of affection could never call 
her beautiful. 

But Maggie's heart beat with kindness and charity, 
which made one forget all about her want of beauty. 
Her hands were ever ready to do service to others, and, 
taking her all in all, she was as cheery and wholesome 
a little servant as could be found in all New York. 

Her early life had not been an easy one. Her child- 
hood had been marred by the crushing poverty of 
Ireland, her girlhood oppressed with the knowledge 
that things were growing worse instead of better. 
Her resolution to seek a new country, of which such 
golden tales were told by other girls who had gone 
before, though seeming the dawn of a millennium of 
comfort and affluence, brought the bitterest sorrow of 
her life^ — parting with home and family. So that, 
despite the brave heart that turned so courageously to 
battle with an unknown future, it was two very tear- 
stained eyes that watched (as she told me) the shores 
of old Ireland fading from view. No one was there to 
notice the pathetic droop of the curly red head, so 
Maggie cried ''the heart out of her" for a day or two, 
and then gathered herself together, and her smile and 

LOFC. 



100 THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID. 

cheery voice were the most prominent memories which 
visitors to the steerage quarters carried away with 
them. 

There was one tall, beautiful, weary-faced girl who 
saw the little Irish maid feeding a baby whose mother 
was ill, and after this delicately-reared girl went back 
to her own luxurious stateroom she could not get 
Maggie's face out of her mind. (All this was told to 
me long after.) 

"Why, she looked absolutely happy!" said the tall 
girl, with a sort of irritation at the perverse sunshine, 
which seemed to shed its brightness so plentifully over 
the poor Irish girl's life, while she could not coax one 
single ray to touch her own surroundings into bright- 
ness. 

When the vessel landed Maggie was met by two 
older companions, who had made the venture a year 
or so before. Their homes had been near ''her part" 
in the old country, and their letters were largely re- 
sponsible for her coming across. 

They gave her a rapturous welcome and took her to 
a safe home, and then, with the warm-heartedness of 
their race, got her a place as maid-of-all-work with a 
little widow in Brooklyn. 

It was not always light work, either, but, light or 
heavy, Maggie's smile and good humor sweetened it, 
and these became so pleasing tO' the widow and family 
that her newness tO' the ways of American housekeep- 
ing was overlooked. She was taught and trained, 



THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID, loi 

until she developed into as deft and capable a little 
maid as the most captious mistress could desire. 

Of course, she made some acquaintances among the 
neighbors, and one of the first results of this was her 
joining the Sodality of the Children of Mary in the 
parish church, under the direction of a nun from the 
convent at the corner ; and here it was I made Maggie's 
acquaintance. A retreat was given to the Sodality, 
and the evening sermon was devoted to the working 
girls. I don't know how it was, but somehow one 
evening these words came to my lips : 

''Each of us has some special mission to perform in 
this world. The mission of a priest or a nun is easy 
to see, but there are other hidden missions in some 
lives — work to do — not recognized by the world, but 
which make one's life perfect and pleasing in our 
Lord's eyes. Some girls think that their lives are 
commonplace and tiresome ; they long for great things 
to do, when all the time they may be passing by some 
little work sent to them specially by our Lord Himself. 
We should be watchful for opportunities to do good 
to every one whose life touches ours. Think how 
happy we will be at the hour of death if we know we 
have never left even the smallest mission unfulfilled. 
This happiness, remember, is possible for each one, 
as there is no life devoid of missions sent us with a 
special purpose and meaning in each." 

That week I had a talk with Maggie. I found out 
the hidden treasures of virtue in the girl, and we 
became fast friends. She often visited me after the 



102 THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID. 

retreat, and always referred to the evening I spoke of 
the special mission of each one as a great enlighten- 
ment to her life. One day she came rather early, after 
Mass of a summer morning. 

"Well, Maggie," I said, "what is it?" 

"I want to say good-by, your reverence." 

"Good-by! Why, surely, Maggie, you are not 
going to leave us ?" 

"Yes, your reverence ; but only for the summer sea- 
son. Mary and Katie (they're my friends. Father; 
came from the same place at home) have got places 
as chambermaids in a hotel down at the seashore, and 
they be thinkin' I need a change, and so they got me 
in, too. But, Father, it's just for the summer. Fm 
comin' back in October, and the missus she says she 
wants me back again then." 

"Well, good-by, Maggie. Be a good girl. Do not 
miss Mass, and go to the sacraments regularly. Pray 
for me, and don't forget to look out for your mission." 

"I do be thinkin'. Father, my mission is to sweep 
and dust. I never can think of anything else for me." 

"Well," said I, "that is a very good mission in itself. 
Maybe God wants you to help keep this old earth clean. 
See that you do it well. Don't leave dust in the cor- 
ners, and some day you may find another little mission 
or two clinging to your broom or hidden in your 
duster." 

Maggie went to the seashore and was assigned, with 
her friends, the task of caring for the rooms of a cer- 
tain corridor lined by handsome apartments, occu- 



THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID. 103 

pied for the most part by the girl butterflies whose 
wings flutter so busily and brightly during the summer- 
time. These rooms were filled with daintiness and 
frippery, shining silver articles scattered over the toilet 
tables and the thousand and one things that belong to 
the paraphernalia of the modern girl. 

There was one room, Maggie told me afterwards, 
where she delighted to dust and to linger. On the 
dressing table was a gilded frame containing an oval 
ivory miniature of the Madonna. The beautiful, sor- 
rowful face was painted with rare delicacy, every detail 
of form and color was brought out, the whole thrilling 
the gazer with the mingling of human and divine which 
is the result of prayer and inspiration in an artist. 

At this picture Maggie never tired of gazing. The 
room seemed to gain a sort of sanctity from its mere 
presence, and when she dusted the articles on the dress- 
ing table her hands touched the picture with reverence 
and her lips formed a prayer. 

One morning she was standing gazing at the picture, 
her duster tucked under her arm, her hands clasped, 
when the owner of the room, who happened to be the 
same tall, weary-looking girl who noticed Maggie with 
interest in the steamer which brought both across the 
sea, entered suddenly. Her memory brought back 
the pang of envy which she had felt at the first sight 
of the blithesome little maid in the steerage. She 
looked at her with unusual interest. Maggie was too 
much absorbed to hear the light footfall, and it was 
not until the girl spoke that she started and, blushing 



104 THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID. 

up to the roots of her ruddy hair, stopped her praying. 

''It's so beautiful, miss,'' she said apologetically, 
hastily resuming her dusting, ''that I couldn't help 
looking at it !" 

"It is beautiful," assented the other girl, looking 
curiously at Maggie. "You may look at it whenever 
you wish. That is what beautiful things are for, to 
give pleasure to every one. This was painted by a 
great artist in Rome, and I think it the most beautiful 
face I ever saw. It is only a dream, however. No 
human face could ever be so lovely." 

"The dear, blessed Mother of God must have been 
that beautiful, even more so," said Maggie, shyly, yet 
with direct simplicity. 

"Surely you don't believe such a woman ever lived?" 
said Edith abruptly, with one of the impulses which 
made her forget position, education, habit, everything 
save t!ie desire to argue with this creature who held a 
belief she could not share. 

The astonishment and dismay in the wide-open blue 
eyes which Maggie turned on her gave her a curious 
thrill, half amusement, half pain. 

"Not to believe^ " Maggie was too horrified to 

finish the sentence. "Our dear, blessed Mother ! O, 
miss, surely you know about her ?" 

Poor Maggie ! In all her life she had never been in 
contact with unbelief, and this coming face to face 
with an open doubt of the very existence of the dear, 
blessed Mother was a shock. 

Edith laughed, but she was impressed in spite of 



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THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID. 105 

herself by this evidence of absolute faith in what she 
had never considered more than a poetic myth. Born 
of a father who was an avowed unbeliever, deprived 
of her mother before she could well utter her name, 
she had been reared in a fashionable atmosphere of 
conviction that religion was but a sentimental creation 
of saints and angels. She had been her father's con- 
stant companion, mingling but little with other girls ; 
and in the society that always gathered about the bril- 
liant physician she blossomed into a radiant woman- 
hood without one stone of foundation on which to rear 
the structure of faith and religion. 

Edith had visited the cathedrals of the Old World. 
She had knelt under the gentle benediction of the Holy 
Father; she had answered the silver chimes of many 
a church abroad and assisted at sacred pageants, but 
had looked on with the eye of an artist, and sometimes 
smiled a little cynically. It was to her love of beauty 
she attributed the tightening of her heart strings when 
she witnessed a ceremonial benediction at St. Peter's. 
Once, when she was in Florence, she had stolen into 
one of the lofty churches there. The dim light, with 
the shafts of amethyst and gold staining the marble 
floor, the sanctuary lamp hanging in midair like a jevv^el 
alive, stilled her heart for a moment as she knelt, and 
then she ran away, frightened. In the bright sunshine 
outside, filled w^ith the glow of Italian color, she 
laughed at herself and thought she w^as growing emo- 
tional. But the memory had never left her, and some- 
thing of these thoughts and incidents flashed through 



io6 THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID, 

her mind as she looked at Maggie. There had always 
seemed a sort of reverence about the little Madonna, 
too, and she felt a kind of envious pain at Maggie's 
amazement that any one should be so truly unhappy as 
not to know the blessed Mother. 

The feeling clung to her all day until her friends 
rallied her, and that night as she sat at her window 
and watched the stars sparkling over the sea, they 
seemed to have a pity in their gaze as they looked down 
on her. The idea grew on her until a rush of tears 
dimmed her eyes and she laid her head on her pillow 
with a half-defined wish to know more of what Maggie 
knew. 

The next morning she lingered in her room, making 
one excuse after another to herself, until Maggie came 
in, duster in hand, for her daily task. She smiled and 
courtsied at Edith's greeting, and at her request went 
about her work, blushing to know that the stormy dark 
eyes which she thought so beautiful were following 
her as she went about. When she reached the Ma- 
donna Edith saw her lips move as she touched it ten- 
derly, and she said gently : 

''You handle that picture almost as if it were alive." 

"I couldn't be rough with it, miss," was Maggie's 
answer, and she glanced under her lashes to see if the 
proud face had the amused scorn it wore the day 
before. But no, it was grave, and even a little sad, 
and the sadness melted Maggie's quick heart and 
stirred her sympathy. 

"Pray to her, miss. She's God's blessed Mother. 



THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID. 107 

She holds the Heart of her blessed Son in her hands, 
and He can't refuse anything she asks/' 

"Pray, child!" said Edith. "I? Why, I never 
prayed in my life. I do not know what the word 
means. How should I pray?" 

And then Maggie forgot she was a poor little 
servant ; she only thought of the depths of the stormy 
heart thus laid bare, starving for faith and love. She 
laid her red hand, hardened by toil, on the soft white 
one of Edith and said with sweet solemnity : 

"Say, 'Mother of Christ, pray for me!' and you'll 
get the grace of praying and believing, for she never 
lets a prayer go by unheeded." 

And then Maggie took up her duster and went 
quickly from the room, leaving Edith gazing at the 
picture, while the little aspiration rang through her 
heart like a deep-toned bell — only for a moment, how- 
ever, for she dashed the tears from her eyes angrily. 

"What am I thinking of to let the aroma of an old 
superstition enthral me? Edith, you are a fool to let 
your emotions run away with you so !" 

And when Maggie came back later to finish her 
work she found the Madonna lying face downward on 
the table. 

That night when Maggie's duties were finished she 
slipped away to the church, and kneeling in the dim 
light she looked straight up at the white figure of the 
Immaculate Conception and recited her rosary for the 
strange dark-eyed girl whose heart seemed to be so 
unhappy, and who did not know how to pray. 



io8 THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID. 

''Mother of Christ, pray for her," whispered Maggie. 

Little did she know that at that moment Edith was 
kneehng at her window with the Madonna clasped 
tightly in her hands, murmuring over and over again : 
''Alother of Christ, pray for me! Mother of Christ, 
pray for me !'' 

Each morning it was the same. Edith lingered to 
ask questions, and Maggie, whose direct answers, clear 
and conclusive, with the simplicity of perfect faith, 
carried conviction to the heart trembling between 
doubt and desire. Maggie never hesitated; she never 
wavered. To her the unhappiness of not knowing the 
blessed Mother seemed so vast that her whole endeavor 
was turned to a prayer that Edith might learn. For 
wasn't the Blessed Virgin close to God in heaven, her 
Divine Son? 

All Edith's half-cynical arguments against the un- 
reason of blind faith were met with the indestructible 
weapons which that faith puts into the hands of its 
weakest soldier. Maggie's untaught language had 
about it a rude, picturesque beauty, especially when 
she grew interested and forgot her shyness. And as 
she spoke she made the great truths of faith doubly 
dear to her listener. 

And as every morning found Maggie answering 
Edith's questions about religion, sO' every evening 
found her kneeling before the altar in the little seaside 
church praying with all the strength and fervor of her 
simple heart for the gift of faith to this other heart 
blindly groping in the dark. 



THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID, 109 

And so the summer days dawned and died. Edith's 
friends wondered at her pre-occupation, and Maggie's 
companions accused her of being in love until they 
found out about the daily visits to the church, and then 
they said she was cultivating a vocation to be a nun. 

The culmination came on the evening of the 15th of 
August. As Edith knelt at the window, while Maggie 
was going to confession in the church, intending to 
offer her Communion next day for her beautiful friend, 
something seemed to float through the starlight down 
upon her. ''Mother of Christ, pray for me !" she mur- 
mured. And suddenly the tightness about her heart 
loosened, the darkness became light, and, laying the 
dear picture against her cheek, she burst into tears. 

''Oh, I know ! I know V she cried to herself. "She 
has prayed for me. Dear Mother of Christ, I believe 
in His one true faith \" 

And in peace with her tired soul she laid her head 
on her pillow. 

The next morning, as Maggie passed Edith's door, 
going to early Mass, she heard her name called, and a 
moment later she was gazing into the radiant face of 
Edith, who laid her hands on the little servant's shoul- 
ders, whispering: "Maggie, Alaggie! Pray for me 
at Mass. I am going to be a Catholic. The JMother 
of Christ has indeed prayed for me.'' 

That was only the beginning. The end was when 
Edith was baptized on the 21st of November, feast 
of the Presentation, and Maggie, more smiling and 



no THE APOSTOLATE OF A LITTLE MAID. 

blushing than ever, was her godmother. When we 
went into the sacristy I said : 

"So you found your mission hidden in your duster, 
after all, Maggie?" 

"Ah, your reverence," said Maggie, "I forgot about 
my mission. I was too busy with my work and telling 
Miss Edith about our Lord and His blessed Mother." 

And then I thought, as I looked at the humble, ruddy 
head: "She has done the Master's work in the guise 
of common things. Blessed be God in His saints. 
She is a true apostle !" 



A Happy Find 

We had gathered together our little mission band, 
three in number, determined to lay violent siege to a 

rather bigoted town. New B , in Pennsylvania. 

We were filled with zeal, determined to win sheaves 
of souls for the great Master, when, lo! our leader, 
^'the noblest Roman of them all," a host in himself, 
was seized with illness, and was obliged to remain in 
bed. What a trial this was, both to himself and us, 
can hardly be described. The Almighty needs not our 
weak instrumentality to fulfill His ends, but only makes 
use of us as He sees fit. 

The mission was opened. One evening I was sent 
for by the City Hospital to see a poor Italian who had 
asked for the priest. I went at once. On arriving at 
the hospital a courteous nurse, seeing I was a priest, 
conducted me to the bed. I found the Italian more 
frightened than ill. In fact, there was no need of his 
sending for a priest at all. He had only a cold, and 
would soon be about again. I said a few kind words, 
however, and left. On my way out I went to various 
other beds, and finally reached one where a young man, 
about twenty-one, with a boyish face, lay very ill in- 
deed. I bent over him and whispered: "Are you a 
Catholic ?" He opened his eyes and shook his head no. 

"Well," I said, taking his hand, 'T hope you wiU 



112 A HAPPY FIND. 

have a restful night, my son, but you are very sick 
indeed." 

He turned his head quickly. 

''Are you a Catholic Father?'' said he. 

"Yes ; I am a priest.'' 

''I am so glad," said he, "because if I am going to 
die I want to die a Catholic." 

"Why do you want to die a Catholic?" I said. 

"Because I think only Catholics have the right re- 
ligion." 

"What makes you think that, my son?" 

"Well, Father, the only boys I ever ran with were 
Catholics, and the only services I ever attended were 
at night, after work, when I accompanied my Cath- 
olic chums, and they were all right. I never had a 
chance to know any religion. When my father mar- 
ried a second time he sent all of us out to earn our own 
living, and I had been doing telephone work until I 
got sick. But I heard the boys say that to go to 
heaven you had to be baptized in the Catholic Church, 
and. Father, I want to be baptized." 

Here was a soul almost thrust into my hands. I 
silently thanked God. 

"Were you ever baptized before, my son?" 

"No, Father." 

"Can you bless yourself?" 

"If you tell me how, Father." 

His humble simplicity touched me. I showed him 
how to bless himself and gave him the fundamental 
principles of faith and some little aspirations to say, 



A HAPPY FIND. 113 

and, as my time was up, I told him I would be back 
in the early morning and would baptize him and give 
him the other sacraments. He thanked me warmly. 

I hurried to the church, went through the usual 
work, and fervently prayed for that soul thus rescued 
by the goodness of God. Next morning I took the 
Blessed Sacrament and the holy oils and hastened to 
the hospital. My patient was weaker, but his face 
glowed with delight when he saw me. I asked him 
to bless himself, which he did fervently; and he re- 
peated the little aspirations, telling me he had done so 
all night long. Ill as he was, he remembered all I 
had told him. Then I prepared to baptize him. Just 
as I was getting everything ready on a little table 
beside the bed, he whispered: 

'Tather, I want to tell you something. I was bap- 
tized once, long ago." 

"What!" I exclaimed. "You didn't tell me that! 
Who baptized you ?" 

"Well, Father, I forgot. Why, I baptized myself. 
I heard the boys say you could not see the face of God 
unless you were baptized, so I got the words you say 
and a tomato can full of water, and I went off into a 
field where no one saw me and I poured on the water 
and baptized myself. I thought I ought to tell you 
when I thought of it." 

Of course, it was no baptism, but the very simplicity 
of it went to my heart, and I reassured him by telling 
him that he was still unbaptized and I would now truly 
baptize him. I did so, and when I finished I told him 



114 A HAPPY FIND. 

about Extreme Unction and the Holy Eucharist. He 
assented to everything*, and when I tried to explain, 
as well as the short time allowed, the great graces 
bestowed by these two sacraments, he said : 

"I'm trying to understand it all, Father, and I believe 
everything the Catholic Church teaches.'' 

Nothing more was needed, so I anointed him, and 
he made his First Communion, and an expression of 
inejffable peace was on his face as I said good-by. I 
never saw him alive again. He died tranquilly that 
day. When I came back to the house and repeated 
the story to my fellow-missionary in his sick bed, he 
raised his hands to heaven and said fervently: 

"Thank God for our glorious mission !" 

But the mission proceeded prosperously. Our 
leader was there at its close, and if the call to the 
Italian's bed was useless, another soul was caught up 
from this valley of tears to the clear vision of Paradise. 
One soul, yet worthy of the precious blood of the Son 
of God! 



The Power of the Blessed Sacrament 

"I HAVE HAD many experiences in my long life, 
Father, but I never think of this one without sudden 
tears." 

The speaker was a venerable Sister of Mercy, and 
we had been talking of the non-Catholic missions and 
of the wonderful ways by which God brought souls 
to a knowledge of His faith and love. I need not say 
I pressed the good Sister to continue. 

"It was many years ago. Father, in the young days 
of the second St. Paul's Cathedral, in Pittsburg, Pa. 
(You may not know the present great cathedral there 
is the third of that name.) It was, too, in the days of 
the first Bishop, Right Rev. Michael O'Connor, who 
became a Jesuit and died a saint. His brother. Dr. 
James O'Connor, afterwards Bishop of Omaha, Neb., 
resided at the cathedral, and was a warm friend and 
benefactor of our hospital at the time I mention. 

"Few and far between were the theatrical or operatic 
performances of that day. But suddenly the city was 
filled with posters, announcing in glaring letters a fine 
company was about to give a week's performance in 
the best opera house. 

"The company was of the highest moral standing. 
The plays were classic, and everybody was going to be 
present. 

"In the middle of the week, when the whole town 



ii6 THE POWER OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. 

was in delight and almost wild over the 'star/ it was 
announced she was seriously ill, and her understudy 
would fill her parts for the rest of the time. 

''It was too true. One night, after a performance 
at which the house was in frantic enthusiasm, the best 
physician of the city was roused up and hurriedly 
driven to the principal hotel, which was right on the 
Monongahela River. He was led at once to the lady's 
room, and found her in high fever. 

" 'Overstrained nerves, excitement and fatigue,' was 
the verdict. 'Her life depends upon perfect quiet.' 

"The manager was in despair. He knew the peo- 
ple wanted her, and visions of a disastrous finale tO' a 
season that began so prosperously distressed his soul. 
There was no help for it, and Dr. Bruce, who was on 
our staflf, suggested a removal to our hospital, where 
quiet and the best nursing and care could be found. 

"Already the hotel people were complaining that 
their house would be depopulated if the truth got out. 
So the ambulance was sent at night, when the streets 
were silent, and the unconscious actress was brought 
to our care. The best room was demanded and given, 
and for days the members of the company came, 
although they could not see her. All expressed deep 
concern, and all demanded and gave generously for her 
comfort everything money could buy. 

"When the week was up and the company had 
departed, she still lay there, sick unto death. 

"The manager gave addresses and an ample check, 



THE POWER OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. 117 

and arranged we should keep him informed daily of 
her condition, which we faithfully did. 

''The hospital became for a time quite a point of 
interest on account of this celebrated woman, who lay 
so long between life and death, but by degrees the 
'nine days' wonder' cooled down, and only the doctor 
and the Sisters continued their interest. 

''Dr. James O'Connor, who frequently visited the 
hospital, however, often inquired for the poor invalid, 
and as soon as was possible paid her a visit. Her 
room was constantly filled with beautiful flowers, sent 
by admirers of her talent. 

"She was worthy of all the attention she received. 
I never saw a more beautiful woman, nor one more 
cultured, or intelligent, or sweet. She was about 
twenty-eight, unmarried and in the full maturity of 
majestic womanhood. 

"Tall, graceful, with perfectly chiseled features, a 
wealth of rich brown hair and very dark blue eyes, 
that often changed to gray, she had a smile that was 
sweet even in her sufferings. She had beautiful 
slender hands, which her art had made full of lan- 
guage. In her convalescence, when the fever had 
caused her to lose her hair, and her head was covered 
with a crop of lovely, short curls, she was the most 
winsome personality I ever met. 

"As she grew better she became interested in things 
around her. She had many questions to ask, and for 
the first time realized she was in a Catholic hospital. 
I was with her every day, and she told me she was a 



ii8 THE POWER OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. 

'High Church EpiscopaHan/ and always said her 
prayers and, whenever her engagements permitted, 
went to church. I mentioned some ministers 1 knew 
and offered to send for any one she wished, but she 
said 'no' so sincerely that I did not press the subject. 

''We had many talks about religious matters, and 
especially about the Real Presence of our Lord in the 
Blessed Sacrament. She told me she always 'believed 
it possible,' and longed to go to Mass. She begged 
me to take her just once to the chapel for Mass, and I 
promised she should go the following Sunday. 

"You are not surprised I became deeply interested 
in her, and had many prayers offered for her. As it 
neared Sunday she grew so excited and anxious that 
I was about to retract my promise, but when I said so 
the tears came and she pleaded so earnestly that I could 
not resist her. 

"She was taken to the chapel Sunday morning in a 
rolling chair, and was placed beside my prie-dieu. 

"All during Mass I prayed for her with my whole 
soul. She never moved. Her white, slender fingers 
were clasped loosely in her lap, and she never stirred 
her hands. We all went to the rail to Holy Com- 
munion, and when I returned to my place and bowed 
my head in thanksgiving I felt her trembling and 
heard her softly sobbing. I motioned to an attendant 
to take her to her room, but she shook her head and 
would not go until after Mass. 

"Shortly after breakfast she sent for me, and I found 
her brilliant with happiness and in an ecstasy of joy. 



THE POWER OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT, 119 

'' 'Oh, Sister !' she cried, 1 longed so to go to our 
Saviour all during that Mass. My heart cried to Him 
because I could not go, but when you came back from 
receiving Communion I felt He had come to me. I 
knew He was with you, and I worshiped Him because 
He was so close to me. I felt His presence.' 

''The ring of her voice is with me yet. I did not 
attempt to repress my tears, and when she begged me 
to instruct her, and declared there was nothing to 
satisfy her soul but the Church where Christ Himself 
remained, my joy was complete. 

"Dr. James O'Connor instructed and baptized her, 
and she made her First Communion in the hospital 
chapel. 

"Her devotion to the Blessed Sacrament was intense, 
and as she grew stronger she remained for hours 
before the altar, 'loving and talking to our Lord.' 

"She had a married sister in New York, but she did 
not wish her to be informed of her condition at first. 
Now she wrote to her and asked her to come and visit 
her. She did so. She was a tall, handsome woman, 
a little older than the actress, but extremely bigoted. 
Her manner was perfectly courteous, but very frigid. 
We gave her every attention, offered her a room near 
her sister, and ere long her coldness wore off. Her 
sister could not keep to herself her new-found happi- 
ness, and they had many talks together, I myself join- 
ing in their later ones at their request. Dr. O'Connor, 
whose gracious manners were very attractive, was 
also present on numerous occasions. All of them had 



120 THE POWER OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT, 

traveled abroad extensively, and their conversation, 
beginning on something they had seen in Europe, 
generally ended on religious subjects. Finally he 
invited both ladies to take a drive and visit the cathe- 
dral, a handsome Gothic structure, the pride of the city. 
The carriage came, they went to several places, and 
finally the great, solemn basilica was shown to them. 
The sanctuary lamp, ever burning, and the confes- 
sionals greatly impressed the ladies, and when these 
latter were thrown open and the Protestant lady 
invited to examine them, the Doctor unconsciously 
overturned her last prejudice. On their return to the 
hospital the married lady told me she had always had 
a horror of confessionals, and could not reconcile the 
idea of a sacrament being connected with the stories 
she had heard of priests and penitents. From that 
day she began to read books of instruction, and before 
her return to New York asked to be baptized, and was 
received into the Church. Both ladies left the hospital 
with grateful tears in their eyes and a warm love for 
the Sisters. 

'T have had many letters from them since. The 
actress never went back to the stage, but married a 
good Catholic gentleman. Her sister was the instru- 
ment of her husband's conversion, and their children's 
also. All led most beautiful Christian lives. I have 
not heard from Aimee, my first protege, for a long 
time; perhaps she has gone to heaven. If so, she is 
surely singing praises to the most holy sacrament of 
the altar, by whose power she was led to the true faith 



THE POWER OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. 121 

and the love of our Lord. May His name be blessed 
forever." 

"Amen/' I echoed as my good religious friend closed 
her narrative. "All praise be given to the Most Holy 
and Divine Sacrament of the Eucharist, the true 
magnet of souls." 



His Mother's Beads 

I HAD BEEN all evening in the confessional. At a 
quarter to twelve I was mounting the stairs that led 
to my room, when the night bell rang. I went to the 
door. 

"Who is there?" I asked. 

"A man who must see the priest." 

"But this is no time to see the priest. Is any one 
sick?" 

"Yes, Father," was the answer in a sad voice. "I 
am worse than sick." 

I opened the door and faced the speaker, a man in 
poor attire. 

"Father," he said, "do you want to save a soul?" 

Then he entered, though I had not invited him to 
do so. Ordinarilly such a proceeding would put me 
on my guard. I felt no fear this time, and under the 
dim light of the hall lamp I scrutinized the intruder. 
He took oflf his cap and I saw a white, haggard face, 
unkempt hair, a ragged coat and grimy hands. The 
eyes were clear and earnest, and I waited to hear what 
should come next. 

"Father, I am a burglar and belong to an organized 
band. Don't be afraid" — for I started back involun- 
tarily. "I was once a good Catholic, but I have not 
practiced my religion for years. This very night I 
held up a laboring man whom I knew had received his 



HIS MOTHER'S BEADS, 123 

pay. I grabbed his throat and took from his pocket 
a roll of bills. Entangled with them was a rosary. 
When I saw the beads I felt a shiver run through me. 
My mother's face came before me. Like a flash I 
thrust the money back into the man's hand and said: 
'You take that; I will keep this/ and before he could 
make an outcry I fled down an alley to a shelter and 
sat down, looking at the rosary. 

''I saw our little house in the country and my old 
mother (God rest her!) sitting in her chair on the 
porch with her beads in her lap. The sun was shining 
and the creatures on the farm were making their 
pleasant noises; but mother was looking at me. I 
called out, 'Do you want anything, mother?' 'No, 
son, only that you be a good man. I am saying my 
beads for you.' Father, I heard her voice as plainly 
as I hear my own, and it broke me all up. I resolved 
to become an honest man and see a priest this very 
night. I had little hope of finding one at this late 
hour, and I think God had mercy on me when He sent 
you to me." 

"My son," I said, "do you want to go to confession?" 
"That's what brought me here. Father." 
I drew him into a little room where there was always 
a stole and a crate, and he got on his knees and made 
his confession. 

It was a strange scene. The darkened room, only 
the hall lamp dimly burning outside; the silent house 
and the solemn tolling of midnight which rang out 



124 HIS MOTHER'S BEADS. 

over the city. But God's work was accomplished, and 
when we stood again at the door he said : 

''Father, you can trust me. I have not a cent in the 
world. I will return what you will lend me next 
Saturday." 

I put my hand in my pocket. There was nothing 
but a two-dollar bill. 

"I am sorry I have nothing more," I said. 

''It will do. Father. I will try to get work, and this 
will give me lodging and meals till I do. I will be 
here next Saturday. Good-night." 

''God bless you, my son," I said. "Good-night." 
And I closed the door. 

It was long before I slept. The face of the poor 
man was before me, and the little white rosary and the 
vivid picture of that old mother in her chair on the 
porch seemed to follow me even as I dreamed. 

"Will he come back?" I asked myself, and then dis- 
missed the doubt as unworthy. All week I wondered 
if he would come. I knew he would some time, but 
feared it might not be so soon. 

Saturday came. In the evening as I came down 
from my study for supper a respectable looking man 
rose from a chair in the hall, where he had been wait- 
ing, and approached me. 

"Father," he said, "I came to return your two 
dollars. I have found work." 

I did not recognize him until he spoke, and then I 
grasped his hand. 

"I am so glad to see you," I said. "I knew you 



HIS MOTHER'S BEADS, 125 

would come some time, but I was afraid not so soon." 
"I meant to keep my word, Father," he said. 
"When I made the first break and came to you I knew 
God would do the rest, and so He did. I thank Him 
for it — Him and my good old mother." 
"You will come again ?" I asked. 
"Yes, Father; I'll come next Saturday." 
And leaving me at the front door, he went out with 
a brisk step and disappeared down the street. As I 
looked at the two-dollar bill I said to myself : "Oh, ye 
sainted old mothers who pray for your wandering 
sons, never give up. God cannot deny your prayers. 
They will come back, and there shall be joy in heaven 
over the sinner who returns, over the sheep that was 
lost and is found through your loving prayers." 

Need I say that he came back the following Satur- 
day and has come regularly since, leading the life of a 
good and honest man? 



The Newsboy Martyr 

The world is full of unwritten heroism, and once 
in a while we find ourselves face to face with a life 
that makes our own seem small and unworthy. Such 
is the one I am going to tell you about ; and remember, 
I tell only tales that are true ! 

The First Communion classes for working boys were 
being formed, one evening, in the schoolhouse of my 
parish. I was watching the lads as they were placed 
in divisions according to their intelligence, when, sud- 
denly, a scuffle was heard at the door. 

Every head was turned, as a boy was pushed for- 
ward. He fell, but quickly regained his feet, and tried 
to make his exit, but two other boys were behind him, 
barring the way. He stood at bay like a small wild 
animal, his terrified eyes taking in the windows, vainly 
trying to see if escape were possible. 

''What does this mean?'' I said sternly. 

"Father, this feller has been hangin' round the 
buildin^ for an hour ! He wants in, but he's 'f raid !" 

"What are you afraid of, my son?" 

No answer came from the boy, who certainly 
looked frightened to death. He was ill-clad, small 
and pale. 

"What is your name ? Don't be afraid ! Speak up 
like a man !" 

"Will," in a husky voice, twirling his cap. 



THE NEWSBOY MARTYR. 127 

^ Will what?" 

"Father, he ain't got any other name. He hasn't 
got any parents, nor brothers, nor nothinV' said the 
boys, who seemed to know him. 

One of life's waifs, I thought, thrown on the stream 
of humanity, wanted by nobody, cared for by nobody, 
and yet a soul for whom Christ died. 

"Will, are you a Catholic?" 

"Yes, Father." 

"Do you want to make your First Communion ?" 

He looked up eagerly. 

"Yes, Father." 

"Well, come here and sit down, and FU teach you 
all you have to know." 

Will looked furtively around, and seeing I smiled, 
and yet was in earnest, took the seat 1 gave him, and 
his presence was soon forgotten. He looked and lis- 
tened in silence all evening. 

I thought it better to say nothing to him that even- 
ing. If he came again it would be time enough. 
When the other boys left I found out from one who 
lingered that Will was a newsboy, lived under steps 
in summer and in ash-pits in winter; always said he 
was a Catholic, but until now never came near a 
Catholic school, and he was twelve years old! He 
had heard other boys talk about night instructions, 
and came with the crowd, but lacked courage to enter 
until forcibly landed in the room by his chums, who 
would have "no foolin' where the priest was." 

Next evening Will was on hand. Face clean, better 



128 THE NEWSBOY MARTYR. 

clothes, though sadly threadbare and respectful and 
attentive. He could not read, so instructions pro- 
ceeded laboriously. However, he grew more and 
more earnest, mastered the chapters of catechism, and 
ere long was the most devoted chap in the room. His 
big brown eyes never left my face when I spoke to the 
class. He helped to put the room in order after dis- 
missal, and always lingered until I said, *'Good-night ; 
God bless you, Willie V 

He learned his prayers and I gave him a rosary, and 
as the time drew near for First Communion and Con- 
firmation he became, if possible, more attentive and 
earnest. Often I spoke to the boys about the saints 
of God, little anecdotes of charity, devotion and 
prayer. Once when I had told the story of the early 
martyrs Will's eyes (ever fixed on me) glowed, and 
that night he said to me: ''Father, I'd like to die a 
martyr !" 

''Well my boy, you might, although not by fire or 
sword.'' 

"How then. Father?" 

"By loving others better than yourself — by giving 
your life to help others. There are many martyrs in 
this world. Will." 

He said nothing and I forgot the circumstance. 

First Communion time came. Will passed the ex- 
amination and made his general confession. I had 
grown greatly interested in him, and had spoken to 
some charitable ladies, who provided him with suit- 
able clothing and had given him work. He was now 



THE NEWSBOY MARTYR, 129 

a respectable looking lad, a messenger boy. But 
although I had provided him with a home, he left it 
to live with an old apple woman, who took him to her 
warm heart and gave him a little corner in her humble 
lodgings, and grew fonder of him every day. And he 
responded to Granny's love by giving her all his earn- 
ings. 

After Will had been confirmed and made his First 
Communion he still came to see me, and I noticed with 
some anxiety he had a hard, hacking cough. I men- 
tioned it, but he only laughed, said it was nothing, ''he 
didn't mind it." But Granny came to see me, greatly 
worried over her boy. 

"Father," said she, "I wish you would bid him not 
to pray so long in the cold. I do be listening for him 
to go to bed, but he is on his knees till all hours, with 
his beads in his hands, and the room do be cold, for 
we can't have fires at night." 

Will's purity and piety had begun to make a deep 
impression on my mind. He is a chosen soul, I 
thought, and often he looked to me like a young saint, 
with his steady brown eyes fixed rapturously on me 
when I talked of the martyrs and holy ones of God. 

One bitter cold February night Will came to see 
me. I noticed his cough was worse, and spoke to him 
about taking more care of himself. When he was 
leaving a blast of icy wind swept through the doorway, 
nearly taking me oflf my feet. 

"Will," I said, "you must take the cars home. Have 
you the change ?" I added. 



130 THE NEWSBOY MARTYR, 

''Well, I declare/' said Will, feeling in his pockets ; 
''I guess I left my money in my other suit. But I'll 
run, Father." 

"No, you'd freeze a night like this. Here is car 
fare." And I handed him a new quarter. 

'Thank you, Father ; Fll borrow it and pay it back," 
said he with a smile. 

"Be off then," I said. "Good-night!" 

"But the blessing?" 

"God bless you! God bless you!" And I hastily 
closed the door. 

I thought no more of Will for a day or two. The 
weather grew bitter cold. No one left the house un- 
less he had to do so. But one afternoon the telephone 
rang and a strange voice asked me could I go to such 
a house to see a poor person who was calling for me 
and was surely dying. I took the address and started. 
It was Granny's humble home, and I met her at the 
door, her apron up to her eyes and the tears streaming 
down. 

"Oh, Father," she wept, "he's never stopped calling 
for you!" 

"Who?" I exclaimed. 

"My poor Willie. He's borrowed something from 
you, and it's worritting him !" 

I asked to be conducted to him at once. 

She led me to the little room, and there on a cot 
was Willie, delirious, calling out he wanted to return 
the quarter. 

"Have you had a doctor ?" I said. 



THE NEWSBOY MARTYR, 131 

''No, Father; sure, it's the priest he's calHng for; 
he only got bad to-day." 

I went at once to a telephone near by and called up 
a physician I knew, who was soon at the house. He 
looked at Will, shook his head and began to work with 
him. I went into the next room, and by degrees got 
the story out of the bewildered Granny. 

The night Will left me he was later than usual com- 
ing home, and Granny was distressed, she said, it was 
so bitter cold. At last about midnight two men came 
to the door with Willie between them. They found 
him lying in the snow, with blood coming from his 
mouth, not far from home. He was almost frozen, 
but gave his address faintly. She had put him to bed, 
and he didn't seem better in the morning, and sud- 
denly he grew delirious and raved about walking home 
and borrowing money from me. Strange, I thought; 
why didn't he ride in the cars ? He was overcome by 
that bitter night, but why did he walk ? What did he 
do with the money ? 

''Granny, had he any money when he came in?" I 
said. 

"Not a cent, your reverence. When I asked him 
why he didn't ride he said his money was in his other 
suit, and when he took bad he was raving that I was 
to pay you back a quarter. Sure, if he had a quarter, 
why didn't he take the cars?" 

"Sure enough," I thought. "I told him to ride." 

I felt uneasy. Where was that quarter? But then 



132 THE NEWSBOY MARTYR. 

the thought occurred to me that he might have dropped 
it in the snow. 

*'The men told me/' said Granny, "that they found 
him senseless, with the blood coming out of his mouth, 
just yonder, almost in sight of the door. It was a 
bitter cold wind he faced, comin' over the bridge !" she 
wailed. 

Just then the doctor called me and said quietly: 
"This is a case of pneumonia and exhaustion. The 
hemorrhages must have been severe. I don't think he 
will pull through. Father, but he will be conscious in 
an hour. I will send some medicine and a nurse." 

I was affected more than I could have imagined. 

"How long do you think he will live, doctor ?" 

"It's hard to tell, Father; scarcely twenty- four 
hours." 

"Make him as comfortable as possible," I said. 

The doctor left and I sat down by the bed. 

Willie muttered in his delirium : "Poor old fellow, 
I wonder if he did lose it." Then again he murmured : 
"By loving others better than yourself. By giving 
your life to help others. Yes, the priest said so. That's 
the way to be a martyr. I wonder were any martyrs 
ever frozen to death?" Then he would start up: 

"Granny ! Granny ! give back Father 's quarter ! 

Mind, I only borrowed it ! Give it back to him !" 

"Yes, darlin'," said Granny, coming in. "I'll give 
it back to him. He's here himself. Lie still, honey. 
Oh, me poor boy !" 

"Willie," I said, "do you know me ?" 



THE NEWSBOY MARTYR. 133 

The big brown eyes opened, but there was no sign 
of recognition. 

A nurse came in just then, and I requested her to 
begin at once to comply with the doctor's directions. 
I sat in the next room and opened my breviary. I 
could leave Willie. I felt sure I should be needed. 
An hour passed. Granny was with the nurse and I 
sat by the window thinking and trying to read my 
office and watching the glory of the red sunset that 
winter afternoon. There was snow on the smoke- 
tainted roof and the muddy river visible beyond the 
bridge was filled with ice cakes. The founderies and 
glass houses belched forth flame and smoke, but the red 
sunset transformed it all into a glow of crimson glory. 
The hue of blood was on everything. Type of martyr- 
dom, I thought, and then came the inspiration, is that 
boy a martyr? How? I must know, for I believe 
he is. 

The nurse called softly: "Father!" 

I went into the inner room. 

Willie was conscious, weak but smiling. 

"Fm so glad, Father,'' he faltered. "I think I am 
pretty sick, but I'm so glad you came." 

I motioned them to leave and I heard Willie's con- 
fession. He wanted tO' receive Holy Communion. So 
I left and returned soon with the Blessed Sacrament 
and the holy oils. He received Holy Viaticum and I 
anointed him. Then he lay peaceful and quiet with 
his eyes closed. The door of the next room was open 
and long crimson gleams of light came through and 



134 THE NEWSBOY MARTYR. 

lay on the white counterpane and on the pillow, where 
the little head rested. There was utter silence 
except his difficult breathing. The nurse moved about 
noiselessly. Her look at me was of one who felt that 
her ministrations were useless, although she smiled at 
Willie. 

''Father,'' he whispered, ''did Granny return your 
quarter?" 

"That's all right, Willie. If she hasn't, she will do 
so. You are going to heaven soon ; don't bother about 
anything but the thought of our Lord, whom you will 
soon see." Then a thought struck me. "Willie, what 
did you do with the quarter I gave you ?" 

He looked squarely into my face. "Father," he said 
with difficulty, "I gave it to somebody who needed to 
ride in the cars more than I did. You know, you told 
me 'by loving others better than yourself, by giving 
your life to help others' I could be a martyr. Father, 
that night I nearly froze. I was so cold walking home, 
and when the icy air stopped my breath and the blood 
came I prayed God would make me a martyr, but I 
only fainted." 

Something rose up in my throat and choked me. 
Here, then, was the secret of the money. The boy had 
given his car fare to somebody, had tried to walk home 
over the frozen river and his weak lungs had given 
out. He was dying now from the effects of his 
charity. Yes, the blood-red sunset foretold the death 
of the martyr. 



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'Father, did Granny return your quarter?" — Page 134. 



THE NEWSBOY MARTYR, 135 

He died that night in his innocence and self-conse- 
cration. The last look of the big brown eyes was on 
the crucifix I held in my hand. 

I had High Mass over the remains, and at his funeral 
I spoke of the noble act that caused his death. There 
were many in the church, for his peculiar little history 
was known by a number who had noticed him. 

Before I had time to remove the vestments an old 
white-haired man tottered into the sacristy. 

''God forgive me, Father,'^ he wept ; 'T was the one 
who unknowingly caused that boy's death. I was at 
the corner waiting for the car that Tuesday night. I 
only had a nickel with me, and it was so cold I dropped 
it into the snow. That boy came along, and I asked 
him to look for it. He stooped and looked, but the 
car came so quick that there wasn't a minute, and I 
begged him to hurry. He slipped a coin into my hand 
and ran off in another direction. I thought it was my 
nickel until I got into the car, when I found it was a 
new quarter. I was terribly surprised, and ever since 
I could not get him out of my mind. I would have 
frozen to death if I had not got into the cars that night, 
for it was bitter cold, and I walk slowly. To think 
that I should happen on his funeral Mass and learn 
that he gave up his little life for me !" And the old 
man wept out loud. 

''Yes," I said solemnly, for my heart was deeply 
moved; "he gave up his little life for you. A martyr 
only twelve years old !" 



The Conversion of the Cook 

I HAD BEEN Spending a few days in a delightful loca- 
tion. It was at a beautiful little lake, set like a gem 
in the midst of low hills and verdant woods ; a sloping 
meadow ran down to the water's edge and a great flock 
of sheep grazed there all day. An old-fashioned mill 
of half a century ago ground out the farmers' grists, 
and, save for the clatter of the lumbering machinery, 
the twitter of the birds floating over the lake, or 
warbling in the drooping willows, the place was as 
silent as the Thebais. 

My visit was to an invalid lady who had been para- 
lyzed for six years, unable to move hand or foot, and 
whose patient resignation was a subject of edification 
to all who knew her. But this tale is not to treat 
of her (now don't smile) — it is to be all about her 
cook! Don't you remember what Owen Meredith 
says : 

"We may live without friends, 

We may live without books. 

But civilized man cannot live without cooks." 

Yes, my story is about the cook! It will tell my 
readers how wondrous are the ways of God and how 
varied the paths by which He leads His erring sheep 
back to the fold. 

So my story is of the cook. She was a buxom 



THE CONVERSION OF THE COOK, 137 

young woman of about twenty-six, very efficient in 
her line — in fact, unusually so — with an open, attractive 
face. I often saw her around, and noticed she ob- 
served me very closely and very curiously, as if she 
had never seen one of my cloth before. In this I was 
mistaken. When the opportunity came she spoke to 
me, timidly yet reverently. 

'Tather, I ought to be a Catholic Y' 

"And why, my child, are you not one?'' 

''Father, we always lived in the country; never had 
much chance to learn religion. My father was not a 
Catholic — he's dead. My mother is a convert, and I 
only was baptized and made my First Communion 
years ago. When I saw you and heard you talk 
something rose up in my heart and a great desire came 
upon me to do what was right." 

Poor woman! The mission of charity in which I 
was engaged and the blessed words of prayer uttered 
had gone to her soul and wakened her faith. 

''But why, my child, have you left off doing what 
was right?" 

"Well, Father, I have a husband who has been 
drinking steadily for three years. He lies around the 
house and curses and swears at religion, especially the 
Catholic religion. I was tired quarreling with him, 
and the only way to have peace was to let church and 
religion alone, and yet, Father, in my heart there has 
been no peace." 

"Have you any children?" 



138 THE CONVERSION OF THE COOK. 

"Yes, Father, a girl of ten and a boy of two, and 
they have never been baptized." 

'Toor, innocent children. And do you not know 
they will never see God's face if you do not have them 
baptized, my poor woman?" 

''Yes, Father, and oh ! I do want to have them bap- 
tized and come back to my duty. You know I ran off 
when I was sixteen and got married by a Protestant 
minister." 

''You are in a bad fix, I must acknowledge. Your 
case is a special one, and you must see your pastor." 

"But, Father, can't you do anything for me? Can't 
you come with me and get the children at least bap- 
tized, and I promise you I will bring them up Catholics 
and do what is right myself the first opportunity. 
Father, it seems to me you have brought God's grace 
here — it has touched my very soul. It has made me 
want to do right by those children, at least in the act 
of baptism. If they should die I would go crazy. If 
they were not baptized, I know it would be on my soul, 
and besides I am afraid to go to the priest by myself." 

The tears were in her eyes. She was deeply in 
earnest. What should I do ? It was none of my busi- 
ness to meddle in the affairs of a strange parish. What 
would the pastor think? What would he not have a 
right to say? Yet, if I should go with her it would 
be a step in the right direction. It would place two 
souls in a state of grace, and perhaps both husband and 
wife might finally see the light and there would be 



THE CONVERSION OF THE COOK. 139 

four more precious souls gathered to the feet of the 
Master. I would go! 

''My good woman, I will go with you to the pastor, 
and we will see what can be done. Suppose you bring 
the children here and let me instruct the little girl 
some.'' 

Her face beamed with joy. '*Oh, thank you, Father ! 
I will never forget your kindness. I will bring them 
to-morrow, and I will make some excuse to go to the 
village, for my husband would kill me if he knew they 
were baptized.'' 

''How far away is the village?" 

''Six miles. Father; but we have a horse and rig, 
and it will be easy to get there." 

Six miles, I thought, and I was growing uneasy over 
my promise. But when I saw the little girl next day, 
and found her all eagerness for baptism, when I taught 
her to say her prayers and explained all that was 
necessary under the circumstances, gave her a little 
prayer book and watched her devour it, I felt it was 
God's work and I must push it through. 

On a Saturday afternoon, caught in a terrific storm 
of thunder, lightning and rain, the party started out, 
and after waiting in a barn for an hour ventured over 
muddy roads to the neighboring tow^n. I met the 
pastor at first alone, explained the matter and received 
his courteous attention. He knew the poor woman, 
had often pitied her circumstances and had no way of 
braving her husband, and hailed my accidental inter- 
ference as a miracle of grace. He consented at once 



140 THE CONVERSION OF THE COOK. 

to baptize the two children and got the necessary 
articles ready in the sacristy. He spoke seriously to 
the mother, and she promised all he asked of her. The 
two children were baptized and I was sponsor, and it 
was a happy party that left the rectory that summer 
afternoon. 

The return of the mother to her duty is only a ques- 
tion of time, and since then I made it a point to meet 
the husband accidentally (?) and talked to him pleas- 
antly, won his attention and exacted a promise that 
he would say the Lord's Prayer every day until he 
should hear from me. I mean to write him and see 
if we cannot coax him on a little further by Father 
Searle's 'Tlain Facts for Fair Minds." 

It is a consoling thing to bring God's grace and love 
into a faraway spot, and I ask my readers to say at 
least a Hail Mary daily for the full return of this 
family to the Heart of Christ. 



An Upright Heart Finds the Truth 

In one of our late missions I saw a fine, well-pre- 
served woman accompanied by a younger person, evi- 
dently her daughter, every evening at the church. She 
was elderly, but the marks of a strong mind, a self- 
reliant character, a staunch, stalwart nature (so to 
speak) stamped her countenance and showed in every 
movement. She seemed to have the respect and defer- 
ence also of the whole town. Her appearance struck 
me, and I made inquiries about her and learned she 
was the v/ealthiest woman in the town — a widow of 
German birth. Her husband and herself were strict 
Lutherans and had come to this country in early life. 
They had labored and worked together, and although 
he had been dead some years, she continued his busi- 
ness with a strong, able hand and was now quite 
wealthy. Her adherence to the Lutheran faith, in 
which he died, was unfailing, and yet their daughters 
had been sent to a convent school because, with a keen 
sense of the correctness of things, they saw that the 
education received there was the purest and the best. 
No restrictions were placed on the girls in matters of 
religion, but the two older became Episcopalians, and 
to the bitter sorrow of their parents died while young. 
The remaining daughter became a Catholic and after 
her father's death, with gentle persuasion, tried to 
soothe the stricken heart of her only surviving parent 



142 AN UPRIGHT HEART FINDS THE TRUTH. 

by quietly endeavoring to lead her mother to the faith 
where alone her heart could be in peace, where her 
dead might be prayed for and every longing of her 
soul satisfied. To gratify this Catholic daughter — this 
cherished child — the mother attended the mission. 
The days passed on, and although deeply impressed 
she was unchanged in her faith. She was not a char- 
acter easily influenced, and old habits and beliefs were 
strong. But she was ''good and right of heart," and 
wanted to do God's will, and the Lord was not to be 
outdone in generosity. She did not miss a single 
lecture. The mission closed ; she was still a Lutheran, 
but now a spirit of unrest seemed to take possession 
of her. She was disturbed and unhappy, and at my 
departure to another mission some six miles away it 
seemed as if she were resisting grace and shutting her 
eyes to the light. I saw the struggle and prayed for 
her, and fervently; her daughter also prayed. 

Suddenly, during my second mission, I saw her in 
the church with her daughter. She had come that 
distance, urged by grace and her upright heart, and 
after attending anew to the lectures she came to me 
one evening. 

"Father," she said, "I have made up my mind. I 
can resist no longer. I firmly believe in the Catholic 
faith, and I am determined to become a member of the 
only true Church !" 

Of course I was overjoyed. There was little in- 
struction to give. She had not gone blindly into this 
change. She had thought it out and studied all that 



AN UPRIGHT HEART FINDS THE TRUTH, 143 

was essential. I baptized her the next day, and her 
happiness and that of her daughter can scarcely be 
described. They are most fervent in their thanksgiv- 
ing for the gift of faith. 

It seems to me that this good woman's conversion 
is owing to nothing so much as to her upright heart 
and sincere character as well as to her threescore years 
of a God-fearing life. 



Snatched Prom the Burning 

Passing between the long lines of cots in a Western 
hospital, I was strangely attracted by the intelligent 
countenance of one of the patients, a man of middle 
age. I had been on a sick call, and was about to 
depart, when, as is my practice, I scanned the faces 
of the occupants of the cots in an endeavor tO' locate 
some sufferer who stood in need of my services, but 
who, as sometimes happens, had not the grace or the 
courage to ask for them. Directing a nurse's attention 
to the stranger, I inquired as to his identity. 

''He is a Protestant preacher, sir," was the reply. 
''He has come down pretty low when he has to be 
taken to a ward in a City Hospital!" 

"Where does he belong?" I asked. 

"Oh, somewhere out West. But he has some few 
friends. They bring him magazines and books." 

I went to the stranger and saluted him pleasantly. 

"I suppose you know I am a Catholic priest," said I. 
"But I always like to say a friendly word tO' those who 
are suffering, even if they are not Catholics." 

"I am not a Catholic," said he. 

"Oh, I know that," said I. "But we are both min- 
isters of the Gospel, and in that way we are not 
strangers." 

He drifted at once to other topics, spoke fluently 
and well of the events of the day and showed such an 



SNATCHED FROM THE BURNING, 145 

intelligent grasp of affairs in general and particular 
that I felt my interest in him growing, and I said so. 

"It isn't often one meets a man like you in a hospital 
ward. I have been very agreeably surprised, and I 
sincerely hope you will soon recover. May I call to 
see you again?" 

"If you wish," said he. "I have not many friends. 
Life is made up of many bitter things. Such, at least, 
has been my life. But pray for me." 

I left, but as I pressed his hand I said: "Trust in 
God. He is our best friend, and never forsakes us. 
You know that. Good-by." 

I went again and again to the hospital, but my friend 
seemed worse each time. He was seized with dreadful 
shivering fits. He trembled from head to foot. The 
very bed shook. It was distressing to look at him. I 
could not get him out of my mind. One day, going 
to see him, I met a man at the hospital gate. 

"You seem interested in Mr. P ," said he. 

"The Protestant minister?" said I. "Yes, a most 
intelligent man. I feel quite sorry he grows worse." 

"Protestant minister!" he ejaculated. "Why, he's 
only a renegade Catholic who went West, lived wild 
and turned to preaching eventually for a living. He 
thinks nobody knows him here, but in his younger days 
he was a fairly good Catholic. He hasn't long to live, 
poor fellow. I go there to see a friend of mine, and 
he knows I know him." 

I didn't say a word, but hurried to the ward. The 
poor man was in one of the terrible nervous fits, shak- 



146 SNATCHED FROM THE BURNING. 

ing as if he had an uncontrollable chill. The perspira- 
tion was standing out on his forehead and rolling on 
the pillow. The shadow of death was on his face. 

I sat down on the chair close to him and taking his 
clammy hand, I said : 

"My friend, you are going to die, and you know I 
am a Catholic priest. You are a Catholic, and I want 
you to make your confession. I will help you all I 
can.'' And I took my stole out of my pocket. 

He looked at me with a despairing look, and then 
he turned his face away. 

"What," said I, "you are going to refuse this last 
grace ?" 

"Father," said he, "there is no salvation for me. I 
have been a traitor of the deepest dye. I have dis- 
graced my family. I have broken my mother's heart. 
I have left the Church of my childhood and railed 
against it in public and in private. I have been blacker 
than Judas, because I have betrayed all that I loved 
with greater knowledge and with bitter malice." 

And just then another one of those uncontrollable 
chills seized hold of him, and, lest he should injure 
himself, some of the orderlies came over and held him 
down. 

When he became quiet I spoke calmly and soothingly 
to him. His frank acknowledgment had all the effect 
of confession to his soul. It broke all the rigid bar- 
riers of pride and despair. It was enough. I saw 
my opportunity, and I availed myself of it with all the 
tact I possessed, with the result that he poured out 



SNATCHED FROM THE BURNING. 147 

his soul in a flood of humble and unreserved self- 
accusation. It was like the rushing of many waters, 
and when it was gone it left his soul purified from all 
stains and in peace. A sweet, holy calm seemed to 
possess him, and he lay there as a babe sleeping. 
While I ministered unto him the sacred Unction, great 
tears rolled down his cheeks. When I was through 
and was placing my stole and oil stock in my pocket, 
he opened wide his eyes and in a look of ineffable joy 
and confidence he said: ^^God is good. No truer 
word did you ever utter, Father, than when you said 
He was our best friend.^' 

I warmly pressed his hand and turned to go. As I 
looked around I saw the large, burly Negro orderly, 
who with difficulty held the sick man's feet a half hour 
before, leaning on his mop, silently and reverently 
watching the whole proceeding, for it was in the open 
ward. I came away, promising to return next day; 
and on my way home marveled at the goodness and 
mercy of God, who had sought out this wandering 
sheep and brought him back to the pastures he had 
deserted. I went back early next morning, but the 
weary stranger had found his Father. Death had 
come in the night. As I glanced at the empty bed, I 
saw a crippled, merry-hearted Irishman beckon me to 
his corner. 

''Father, ye did a good work for that poor fellow,'' 
said he. "He died in peace and quietness, and, I think, 
happy and thankful to the Almighty; but the black 
man ye saw moppin' the floor said it was the 'powerful 



148 SNATCHED FROM THE BURNING, 

little cotton plasters' ye put on his hands and feet that 
quieted him down and gave him the happy death, an' 
maybe, Father dear, you'll have his soul on the strength 
of them same 'plasters/ " 

''True to the sunny isle you came from, Patrick/' 
thought I, "mingling a joke with the keenest suffer- 
ing." 



Poor Little Madeleine! 

In this sad, true tale there is a lesson for men and 
women who are addicted to profane language, espe- 
cially those unhappy parents who dare to utter such 
in the hearing of little children. The Almighty pun- 
ishes with terrible vengeance those who take the name 
of the Lord God in vain ! 

'^D— n you, for a little divil !" 

The words came from the lips of a frowsy, bloated- 
faced woman, who stood in the doorway of a small 
frame house in one of the side streets of the city. The 
woman was not yet thirty, but although she might once 
have been handsome, with a bold, black-eyed, dashing 
beauty, she seemed a most repulsive object as she stood 
there, leaning on her broom and smoothing down her 
torn, dirty apron. 

She was laughing at a curly-haired baby, about three 
years old, who sat flat on the dirty pavement, with a 
fire shovel in her hand, which she beat on the muddy 
bricks with all her might, while she held a struggling 
kitten under her arm. 

If the coarse words provoked indignation or disgust, 
the scene almost provoked a smile, for the baby lifted 
up her pretty, dirty face, around which curls, that 
should have been soft and golden, were tossed un- 



150 POOR LITTLE MADELEINE! 

combed and unwashed, and, sticking out her little 
tongue at her mother, stuttered out: 

''So is 'oo a yittle divil !'' 

The woman burst into a rude laugh, and, throwing 
down her broom, picked up the child in her arms, 
shovel, kitten and all and bore her screaming into the 
house. 

It was a grim, sadly ludicrous sight, yet one to make 
the angels weep. With the language of such a mother 
for the music of her babyhood, what was to be expected 
of Madeleine? Passers by sometimes stopped, aston- 
ished at the stammering baby voice precociously imi- 
tating the profane speech heard in the sacred spot 
called "home !" 

Yet Madeleine, like a gay-feathered parrot, took up 
the terrible words we would not write, and lisped them 
as she would a prayer, knowing no difference. 

Every one noticed Madeleine when her face was 
washed and her fair curls combed and clustering. 
Sometimes, in clean apron and pretty dress, she would 
go to the ''big school" near by with some little friend, 
and so winning were her baby ways and so cunning 
her little speeches that her blue eyes and sweet face 
took every one by storm. Teachers and "big girls'' 
fell in love with her at once. As long as she was 
pleased, all was sunshine; the rosebud face was all 
aglow. But cross her once, and, presto! no trooper 
in the King's army could rip out a fiercer oath than 
this three-year-old! 

One day something that she wanted was taken from 



POOR LITTLE MADELEINE! 151 

her, when she stamped her Httle sHppers and spit out 
this speech: 

"D— n '00, divil lady !" 

The young Sister of Mercy, whose darling she had 
been, grew pale, stopped her ears, and actually ran 
from the baby in horror, while the more hardened 
youngsters around shouted their wicked merriment. 

But Madeleine — did she know what she had said? 
No ; how could she ? Alas ! it was her native atmos- 
phere. Alas ! again for those elders who give voice to 
profanity before innocent children; on them will the 
sin be visited. 

What was to become of this pretty, precocious baby ? 
"If she begins thus,'' said some, ''when she gets sense 
the edge of horror will be worn off.'' And yet every 
one was interested in Madeleine. So engaging, so 
outspoken in her affection, so irresistible in her sweet- 
ness, her little face was like that of a cherub until her 
temper was roused, and then there was nothing but 
sulphur in the air. 

The good Sisters in the ''big school" tried many 
ways in the short visits that Madeleine made to break 
her of her terrible habit, but only succeeded in making 
her cry bitterly and look from one to the other in terror 
and amazement. She was too young; her mother 
could not be approached, and they were in despair. 
But in their convent home they prayed for both mother 
and child. 

One day Madeleine, in spite of her mother's profane 
commands, persisted in playing too near the open 



152 POOR LITTLE MADELEINE! 

grate. Her little dress caught fire. The neighbors 
were aroused and the fire was extinguished. And 
amid her own piercing screams and her mother's cries, 
the child was hurried in an ambulance to the hospital, 
where it was found she was beyond hope. She had 
inhaled the flames. 

At first the mother's grief was wild and furious, but 
when she found she would not be permitted to see 
Madeleine if she did not calm herself, she grew quieter 
and implored to be allowed to remain. 

Madeleine's face was untouched by the flames, but 
her little body was horribly burned. And as she lay 
on the little cot, wrapped in ointment and dressing, 
she screamed with pain, and startled the doctors by her 
profanity. Shocked and amazed, they said to each 
other: ''Where has this beautiful child come from?" 
And the trembling mother, bowed down in the distant 
corner of the room, heard and wept. She was brought 
face to face with her awful life and her responsibility, 
and striking her breast again and again, acknowledged 
to the pitying Sisters who tried to console her that she 
alone was to blame. 

Two days she watched by the little cot, looking into 
her baby's face with the yearning mother love that 
touches the hearts of all men, trying to undo her awful 
work and make the baby lips lisp a prayer. But she 
had taught her too well. Madeleine did not under- 
stand the new language. She was not responsible for 
her three years of life, and all who ministered about 
the cot were glad when unconsciousness sealed her 



POOR LITTLE MADELEINE! 153 

lips. She died, and the heart-broken mother felt her 
punishment was almost greater than she could bear. 
But tender and kindly words soothed her and brought 
her back to God; and over the little white casket she 
registered a vow that her life should be changed. 

She has kept her vow. She is a changed being. 
And though the lesson was a terrible one, it has saved 
her soul. 

• ••••• ■ 

Need I say more? Do those who take the name of 
the Lord in vain ever think that retribution may be 
waiting for them? 

Poor little Madeleine! 



His Catholic Wife 

''Thank you for coming, Father/' said the proprietor 
of the hotel. ''It is a stubborn case. The girl will 
not be married except by a priest, and the man having 
persuaded her to come here for the purpose, can get no 
farther with all his persuasion. My wife has been 
wath them since they arrived.'' 

"Where are they?" said I gravely. I was shown 
into a quiet parlor where the mistress of the hotel sat 
with the young man and woman. 

The young man was talking earnestly to the girl, 
who was quite young and pretty. 

She rose respectfully and advanced to meet me. 

"You are very good to come here. Father," she said, 
with the ease of one used to meeting strangers. 

"But, my dear young woman," said I, "don't you 
know this is a very strange affair for you? Are you 
not aware that a matter like this not only requires the 
consent of your parents, but a certain respectable pub- 
Hcity?" 

"Father, I know all about it. It is certainly a run- 
away match, as the world will call it, but there is no 
help for it. I have thought it all over, and there is 
no other way out. I can't be married at home, for if 
we were to live a hundred years my family will never 
consent, and I will marry no one but Arthur. I shall 
never give up my faith, and shall bring him to it some 



HIS CATHOLIC WIFE. 15s 

day ; and as for the rest, we can both work, for we are 
young and strong/' 

The young man spoke for the first time. 

''All this is true, sir. I will do all I can to be a good 
husband, and never interfere with Annie's religion. I 
have no faith, but my faith in her. She consented to 
marry me if I got a priest, and my friend here and his 
wife have helped me, as you see, in bringing you here. 
He seems to know you well.'' 

''Yes, he is an old friend, and happened to know I 
was around. I am aware it would be hard to adjust 
the matter now in the young lady's parish. She cannot 
go home. She might be compromised if she stays 
here. Can you wait an hour or two? I will go to 
see the Bishop myself. It is only a short distance from 
here. I will return." 

The girl answered: "Thank you from my heart, 
Father. Certainly we will wait. Arthur has the 
license in his pocket, and we are both of age. I am 
aware a dispensation is required. You know (smil- 
ing) I have relatives priests !" 

"I know all about you," said I. "And I know when 
a woman will, she will, and that's an end on't, and of 
two evils we must choose the lesser." So saying I 
left. 

In two hours I returned. The proprietor and his 
wife were still with the young couple. 

"I will marry you now," said I. 

The simple ceremony was soon over, and I gave the 
bride and groom some serious and strong advice. The 



156 HIS CATHOLIC WIFE, 

proprietor of the hotel and I had a little talk. He 
promised to have the marriage in the morning papers. 
The young couple departed to a distant city, where 
they were to reside with the groom^s mother. 

It was not an unusual affair. Opposition, perhaps 
too long persisted in, had made the elopement almost 
pardonable. No permission was asked this time, be- 
cause refusals had gone before. And there was only 
one good reason for this — the groom was a Protestant, 
and in that strict Catholic family (would there were 
more like them) permission for a mixed marriage was 
not to be thought of for a moment. We will not dwell 
on this family's indignation and distress when the 
newspapers were read next morning. Our story is 
with the wife who for love of the husband of her 
choice thus set out in life. Out of evil often cometh 
good, says the proverb. 

She went to her husband's family and was the only 
Catholic there; but she made her faith respected. 
After the birth of a little boy the husband's health 
began to fail. He was ordered West. He came home 
better. Two more children were given to them. 
Again the husband's health failed, and now reverses 
came, but again he went West at great sacrifices, and 
the brave little wife prayed and worked alone. After 
some months word came he was improving and had 
settled with an uncle in Michigan and only needed 
Annie to become perfectly well. She could ill afford 
the journey, but it was her duty. Leaving her two 
children with their grandmother, who' was still a strong 



HIS CATHOLIC WIFE. 157 

Methodist, the wife took her baby in her arms and 
started for Michigan to the Httle border village, where 
there was scarcely any civilization. Her heart was 
heavy enough when she saw she would have to rough 
it, but she took up her burden bravely, offering all she 
suffered for the conversion of her husband. 

This is what she met in her new home: A log 
house three miles from the village, where the uncle 
and three rough, good-hearted lumber men lodged, in 
the midst of a clearing. Her husband instead of get- 
ting better, grew steadily worse, and the little division 
of the rude house, partitioned off for their bed room, 
allowed the winds of heaven to penetrate a hundred 
chinks, and the snow and rain as well. She was the 
only woman, and the only Catholic, around, and to her 
lot now fell the care of all the household as well as 
her sick husband. Every one was kind, but more than 
kindness was needed. As the winter grew colder arid 
colder, only one room was habitable, and into it was 
crowded the cooking stove, the dining table and the 
invalid, together with the rough seats of the lumber 
men. And the invalid became weaker and weaker. 

There was a little church three miles away, and once 
a month a priest came there and said Mass. 

Poor young wife ! It was a sad change for her, and 
on Christmas Eve, as she sat weary and worn, think- 
ing of her absent children, of her old home, of all she 
had left behind, she could hardly suppress the tears. 
Her husband was wrapped in blankets in an armchair 



158 HIS CATHOLIC WIFE. 

near the fire, and his hollow cough came rasping on 
her ear. She went over to him quickly. 

"Annie/' he said feebly, ''are you going to church 
to-morrow ?" 

''Yes, Arthur. Don't you know it will be Christmas 
Day as well as Sunday?" 

"Christmas Day!" he sighed. "Christmas Day! and 
such a Christmas for you. Oh, Annie, how I reproach 
myself for bringing you here." 

"Hush, Arthur," said the brave woman. "It was my 
duty to come. You will break my heart if you say 
you regret my coming. No woman who loves her 
husband — no good Catholic woman — would do any- 
thing else." 

"Aye, indeed," said the man; "you may well say 
good Catholic woman. I have watched you, Annie. 
If there is a true religion on earth, it is the one that 
made you what you are. Annie, could you bring your 
clergyman up here after service?" 

"Do you mean it, Arthur?" was the joyful cry. 

"I mean every word of it. I want to talk to him. I 
haven't much time now." 

Annie bent over him with sorrowing tears, but her 
heart was full of gratitude. 

The journey through the bitter wind and snow next 
morning was full of thanksgiving for the Babe of 
Bethlehem. The priest came, a man who understood 
his fellow-man. The few difficulties in the way of the 
invalid were smoothed, and with unbounded faith and 
gratitude to his wife, Arthur received baptism, 



HIS CATHOLIC WIFE, 159 

''I will come before New Year's," said the priest, 
''and you can make your First Holy Communion. 
Your wife will instruct you." 

And Annie instructed her husband, who was as 
docile as a little child. 

The priest came back and gave him his first Com- 
munion, and as he became weaker and one could see he 
had not long to live, he explained the Sacrament of 
Extreme Unction and anointed him. 

Here was the young wife's reward at last. Out in 
the wild lumber region of Michigan, far from home 
and her little ones, she had now from heaven the con- 
version she had prayed for so earnestly. The rough 
lumber men were touched at her mingled grief and 
happiness, and, although they were hard worked and 
rude, did all they could to soften her lot. 

One morning after they had gone to the deep forest 
for the day the end came. Peacefully and quietly her 
husband died in the deep isolation of that lonely forest. 
The brave girl, alone with her baby in that desolate 
log cabin, after the first bitter paroxysm of grief, 
closed her husband's eyes, composed his limbs and 
gathered herself together to think what must be done. 

'T must get an undertaker, and I must telegraph 
him," she murmured. "I cannot go into the deep 
woods after the men ; it is easier to walk the three miles 
to the village." 

Placing her little sleeping babe securely at the foot 
of the bed, where its dead father lay, she donned her 
wraps and locked the door and began her walk to the 



i6o HIS CATHOLIC WIFE. 

village. It was not yet noon, and it was snowing, a 
dry, powdery snowstorm such as is common in the 
West, but she walked bravely on. She reached the 
village, sent telegrams at the little railroad station to 
her mother-in-law and her own family, announcing 
Arthur's death and asking what she should do. Then 
she went to the undertaker. She was distressed be- 
yond expression to find he was not a licensed under- 
taker and would not go to the house. He was sorry, 
but he had none of the requirements for disposing of 
the remains, and directed her to the ''correct'' under- 
taker, fifteen miles away. Everything was rough in 
that primitive settlement. The men were all working, 
the women were few, and, sad tO' say, those who 
wanted to help her did not dare. They, too, had seen 
death under similar circumstances. The man was 
moved at her tears, and when he heard she had not 
tasted food that day, forced her to swallow some hot 
milk, and said he would try to get her a horse and 
sled if she would drive. 

There was no alternative. If she returned home to 
look after her baby she would have to come back and 
thus make the same journey over again. The lumber 
men would not be back till sundown. 

Breathing a prayer that her dear ones, the living 
and the dead, might meet with nothing harmful, she 
took the reins and started on her fifteen-mile journey. 
The horse was a poor one, but she found the under- 
taker, who came back with her and the ready-made 
coffin in the sled. His horse he fastened to the back 



HIS CATHOLIC WIFE. i6i 

of the sled. She reached the village, returned the 
borrowed horse, and weary and worn after her thirty- 
six miles of travel in the bitter cold, took her seat 
again with the undertaker, the coffin at her feet, and 
arrived at her cabin just as the lumber men returned 
home. 

They knew in a moment all that had happened, and 
respectfully gave all the help they could. 

The baby was sleeping peacefully at its dead father's 
feet, apparently unconscious of its long fast, and the 
weary mother thanked God while she ministered to it. 

And when her husband lay in the coffin, his worn 
features in repose, like one peacefully sleeping, her 
desolation broke upon her, and she cried out: ''Oh, 
God! what next?" 

She did not wish to bury him in that wild place 
until at least she had heard from her home in Penn- 
sylvania, and the undertaker promised to wait two 
days at least, and if an answering telegram came he 
would bring it to her. 

Can you imagine that lonely vigil? All night the 
men watched in turn, but next day inexorable contract 
drove them into the forest, and Annie was alone with 
her babe and her dead. 

No reply to the telegram came, and her heart was 
sore and heavy. She had only twenty dollars for the 
funeral expenses and the journey home when all was 
over, and it was not enough; she could not ask alms 
of those with whom she shared her poor home, for 
money was scarce with them. 



i62 HIS CATHOLIC WIFE, 

Wearily she watched the snowflakes, ministered to 
her babe, and from time to time looked at the placid 
face of the dead. All alone until evening she sat, until 
the lumber men came back from their work, and then 
they had to be fed and the domestic work attended to, 
almost all done in sight of the coffin which held the 
remains of him to whom she had given the best years 
of her young life, and not once had she regretted. 
Such is woman's love. 

Again the night watch, and the next morning the 
undertaker arrived with a despatch. It was from her 
mother-in-law : 

''Bring remains home. Will meet you at depot, 
Chicago. Wire what train you leave." 

With a heart relieved, yet very sad, the young widow 
began her preparations. In her poverty there was not 
much to take with her, and when she told the under- 
taker she had but twenty dollars for him, and begged 
him for a loan until she could send it back, the good 
man added twenty more and assisted her in getting 
everything ready for the train, even sending the tele- 
gram to meet her mother-in-law in Chicago. 

Perhaps you will wonder why those who were near 
and dear to her did not help her ; but this is a true story 
— its dramatis personae are still living. They did not, 
and the fact remains. Truth outweighs fiction. 

The journey home began. There was a sad meeting 
in Chicago. The rough box in the baggage car, the 
mother and the young widow and her babe. And 
when it was found how straitened were her means 



HIS CATHOLIC WIFE. 163 

every help was given, and as the train whirled on 
towards Pennsylvania the story of the hardships of 
that Western home was told with mutual tears. 

In the meantime the second telegram was discussed 
in the young widow's family, and when it was found 
the Protestant mother-in-law had been the first to go 
to Annie's relief, there was a tinge of remorse and 
shame, and the hard spirit of disapproval which had 
followed the girl since her runaway marriage melted. 
Her brother, a priest, declared he would start at once 
and meet her, first despatching to the mother-in-law a 
message, which was re-sent to Chicago and was 
answered on the journey: 

''Meet us in Erie. Train 26." 

It was Saturday, and the young curate had not time 
to provide a substitute for his services next day, and 
when he arrived in Erie, and the hours passed with no 
signs of the train, he grew anxious. Inquiries elicited 
the fact that the train had met with a wreck ten miles 
outside the city, and the delay was indefinite. He was 
at a loss what to do. With the assistance of a brother 
priest a telephone message was sent, and it was finally 
settled that the remains should be removed from the 
train and buried next day in a lot belonging to some 
member of the family near by. The brother priest 
promised to take a horse and ride out to the place, and 
thus the young curate was able to catch a midnight 
train for home and be ready for his Sunday duties. 

Poor Annie! Her troubles had never given her an 
hour's rest. At last her husband's remains were placed 



i64 HIS CATHOLIC WIFE. 

in the quiet cemetery and the strange priest blessed the 
grave. When all was over they returned to the 
mother-in-law's home, and the widow was again with 
her children, whom she had not seen for a year. 

Is it surprising she was seized with illness which 
kept her helpless for several weeks? 

When she recovered she started out to seek work 
to support her children and herself, for she would not 
be a burden on the mother of her husband, who had 
become devoted to her little grandchildren and who 
also had a strong afifection for her son's Catholic wife. 

Annie obtained employment as a saleslady, and her 
ready intelligence and wit and her attractive personal 
appearance made an impression on her employers. 
She soon had an assured position and was able to help 
the home finances considerably. Her children soon 
became old enough to be instructed for the sacraments, 
but there was no Catholic school near. It was weary 
work for Annie to instruct them at night when she was 
tired and the children sleepy. At last the grand- 
mother offered to hear the little catechism and see to 
their studying it. With an unspoken prayer that this 
good woman might see the light, Annie gladly con- 
sented. 

The end can be readily guessed. The sincere, good 
Christian grandmother, reading and enforcing the 
words of the catechism, found the light. 

Our story is told when, after many days, she was 
baptized and the children and their grandmother made 
their first Communion together and the happy widow, 



HIS CATHOLIC WIFE. 165 

who had passed through many trials and an almost 
incredible experience, found herself, with tears of joy, 
the centre of a devoted group in a truly Catholic home. 

She whose devotion proved so fruitful works cheer- 
fully day after day, gladly accepting life's crosses and 
praising God that He enabled her to bring these five 
souls — husband, mother and three little ones — to His 
sacred feet. 

Is there not an apostolate for every Catholic wife in 
the family circle ? Look around, reader, and bring the 
question home. 



Converted by History and Shakespeare 

Once I knew her as an interesting child. She is 
now a charming woman. She is a convert to the faith, 
and when I asked her how it was, she told me the 
story. 

Of all her stock and kin, she is the only one in the 
Church. Father, mother, brothers and sisters are still 
living, and in her childhood a Catholic was spoken of 
with contempt and derision. She had not one Catholic 
acquaintance, nor any Catholic friends, but always 
something like resentment stirred her heart every time 
the faith was mocked. She wanted to defend what 
she knew nothing about, and every one told her so. 

When she went to school, study was delightful to 
her. Her remarkable memory and logical brain, her 
versatile talents, even before she reached her "teens," 
were a subject of pride to teachers and parents. 

She began to study English history quite critically 
before she was ten years old, and at the same time 
studied Shakespeare's historical plays. A thousand 
questions rose in her mind as to the actions of Henry 
Vni. on the subject of his marriages, divorces and 
wholesale wife-killing, and especially his rebellion 
against the Church, and her teachers' answers were 
not satisfactory. She decided in her childish mind 
that he was a monster, and when it came to the point 
of his assuming the supremacy of the faith and becom- 



CONVERTED BY HISTORY AND SHAKESPEARE. 167 

ing the head of the Episcopal Church, of which she 
was a member, her whole soul recoiled in horror from 
the thought. She accidentally mentioned this to a 
teacher in the college, with whom she was slightly- 
acquainted, and when she found this lady was a Cath- 
olic, and agreed with her opinion, she opened her heart. 

This woman was rather startled at the clear brain 
and logical mind of this little girl of ten, and rather 
shrank (lest she should lose her situation) from the 
task of answering the thousand questions asked; but 
she gave Edith books, and once allowed her to go to 
Benediction with her. 

The child was almost wrapped in ecstacy. Here, 
in this church, she felt a joy, a satisfaction she found 
nowhere else. It was really the house of God. Her 
heart told her so, and many a time she stole there alone 
to pray. She read everything about Catholics she 
could find, always disdaining everything against the 
faith, and boldly defending it in a way that startled 
her preceptors; and at home, while she was a good, 
church-going Episcopalian, no one dared to defame 
Catholic doctrine in her presence, and she was so clever 
at repartee that her opponent always got the worst of 
it. Shakespeare was her favorite author, and she 
appeared in amateur productions on the college stage. 

Time passed on, and one day as she was making a 
stolen visit to the Catholic church, in fact, the cathedral 
of her city, the Bishop passed through the nave. She 
knew him by sight, and followed him into the resi- 
dence. 



i68 CONVERTED BY HISTORY AND SHAKESPEARE. 

''May I speak to you, sir ?'' she said. 

''Certainly, my child,'' said the prelate. "What is 
it?" 

"Why, I love the Catholic religion, and I want to be 
a Catholic." 

"And why, my little girl ?" said the surprised Bishop. 

"Because there is nothing but contradiction in our 
religion," said the wise little lady. "There is no peace^ 
for even our ministers do not agree. But when I go 
into your church I feel as if I were in the house of 
God and He was there, and, besides, Catholics all be- 
lieve the same thing." 

"What is your name, dear, and where do you live?" 

"My name is Edith , and I live in 

street." 

"Are there any Catholics at home?" 

Edith laughed. "Father would banish them if there 
were. He hates the name. I think he would punish 
me if he knew I spoke to you or came to this church." 

"And yet you want to be a Catholic?" 

"Of course I do, sir ; and Til be one some day." 

"Yes," said the Bishop, placing his hand on the 
child's head, "I think you will. How old are you ?" 

"Nearly thirteen." 

"Well, suppose you wait a while. Suppose you wait 
just five years, and if you are of the same mind as you 
are now, come and tell me, and you shall be a Cath- 
olic." 

"Five years !" said Edith, aghast. "Why, Fll be an 
old woman." 



CONVERTED BY HISTORY AND SHAKESPEARE. 169 

The Bishop laughed a ringing laugh. 

''You won't think so then, my dear. But you must 
Avait till then, for I won't let you say anything to me 
before the five years are up." 

''And what shall I do all that time?" said Edith, 
mournfully. 

"Just what you are doing now — going to school, 
studying well and trying to read the correct side of 
history as well as the side your text-books give you." 

"I love Shakespeare," said the child, "and I am put- 
ting him in contrast with my English history. The 
books I stud}^ do not tell the truth about Henry the 
Eighth." 

The Bishop looked startled at the little logician. She 
amazed him. It was either wonderful grace from 
heaven or wonderful precocity. 

"Well, child, read other histories and be sure to say 
your prayers, and come back in just five years. And 
now good-by, and God bless you, Edith. I won't for- 
get our bargain." 

But although this extraordinary incident did remain 
in the Bishop's mind for many days, at length it was 
forgotten. 

Not so with Edith. She said in her heart: "I am 
a Catholic, and have just five years to wait before I 
can tell them all." 

She continued a brilliant course of study, was always 
first in her classes and evinced remarkable talent in 
amateur theatricals. 

When she was seventeen, after a course of study in 



170 CONVERTED BY HISTORY AND SHAKESPEARE. 

New York, it was decided she had histrionic gifts of 
a high order, and she began a stage career. At 
first she seemed to win favor, but after a few months 
as an actress she found the Hfe too hard; her nerves 
were unstrung, her health shaken, and she returned to 
her home, her ambition disillusioned, her heart disap- 
pointed. 

She wanted to be an actress. She was nearly 
eighteen. During the past years she had never lost 
sight of the Bishop's words. The five years were now 
up. And she had read "English history'' thoroughly, 
and studied books explanatory of Catholic doctrines. 
She had delved deep into all sorts of classic literature, 
and with a wonderful memory had made herself per- 
fectly at home with the classics, with all sorts of topics, 
and finished an extended college course. Her year on 
the stage had even made her more eager to be educated 
"all around." She had a Catholic prayer book now 
and a crucifix. She hesitated about a rosary, lest she 
might lose it somewhere. 

Her period of probation ended, this extraordinary 
girl, who had no Catholic instruction, no Catholic 
friends, no home influence to help her, presented her- 
self at the Bishop's house. 

The Bishop had changed greatly in five years. So 
had Edith. She was a beautiful young woman; and 

when she introduced herself as the little Edith 

who had been directed by him to return to him after 
five years, he could scarcely believe his senses. 

He remembered the circumstances perfectly, and 



CONVERTED BY HISTORY AND SHAKESPEARE. 171 

asked her innumerable questions. She told him the 
story of her Hfe simply. He was deeply interested. 
He had no objections to offer, but he gave her a little 
catechism and appointed a time for her baptism. 

Edith returned at the appointed hour, with the whole 
catechism memorized. The Bishop asked her question 
after question. He even went into abstruse question- 
ing. He could not puzzle her nor shake her faith. He 
was conquered. 

''Edith," he said at last, "you are a child of grace. 
God has done wonders for you. Go home and think 
over it all, and to-morrow I will baptize and confirm 
vou." 

ml 

With delight Edith returned home. There was no 
use saying a word about it there. She made up her 
mind that she would tell them the next day, after she 
was baptized, that she was a Catholic. And let come 
what might, she would face it. If she were put out 
of the house, she would be a teacher, and she felt she 
would be eminently qualified. 

Next day she was baptized and confirmed privately 
in the cathedral, after the Bishop himself had given 
her some private instructions for her first confession 
and first Holy Communion, which she was quite pre- 
pared to make in a day or two. She went to confes- 
sion to the Bishop, heard his Mass and with 
tears of devotion approached the Holy Table. She 
breakfasted with the Bishop and then went home, and 
by his advice declared she was a Catholic. Of course, 
there was a storm, but Edith would take none of it 



172 CONVERTED BY HISTORY AND SHAKESPEARE. 

seriously. She knew what she had done. She was 
ready to leave the house, and laughingly told them she 
would go that day. But one after another cooled 
down, and finally she had it all her own way, embrac- 
ing them all, through sheer happiness, and promising 
them heartily, to their horror, that she would pray 
them into the Catholic Church. 

She has not done this yet, reader, but she has radi- 
ated the beauty and loveliness of a noble womanly 
character by her fervent practice of the one true faith. 
She is the centre of a circle who love her and look up 
to her ; and if her mission is not yet accomplished, she 
has before her a long life wherein to fulfill it. 

"After all,'' she said, smiling, ''I guess my conver- 
sion is due, first, to God's goodness to me, and then to 
Shakespeare and English history." 

But I replied: "To those who love God all things 
work together unto good.'' 



Out of the Darkness 

It was summer in the foothills of the Adirondacks. 
Visitors were coming and going, among them a charm- 
ing old lady and her two lovely daughters. This 
amiable and sweet old person was of unusual piety 
and goodness. She loved God and her neighbor, was 
a devout Bible reader and burning with zeal for the 
salvation of those wandering souls that were not mem- 
bers of the ''enlightened'' Protestant Church. More 
than anything else she was' full of pity for the poor 
''Papists'' — those precious souls whose misguided 
pastors led them through devious ways to perdition — 
as she believed. 

In her sincere zeal she pondered over their mis- 
fortune and almost felt herself to be a prophetess sent 
to warn them of their danger. The more she dreamed, 
the more anxious she became for an opportunity. She 
was oblivious of the beauty of the grand old mountains, 
the royal woods, the crisp, piney odors of the hills and 
the delights of their wooded pathways. Her only 
thought was of religion and how she could place some 
soul on the right path to heaven. 

Her opportunity came. The Catholic pastor of the 
vicinity had a congregation of French-Canadians, and 
although his church was fifteen miles away from the 
town where our venerable friend stayed, she deter- 
mined to pay him a visit and state her "mission." He 



174 OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 

received her cordially, and from commonplace topics 
they drifted to religion. 

*'Do you know/' said the lady, with all courtesy and 
gentleness, ''I have been thinking much of you since 
I saw you in your church. Forgive me when I say 
that I grieve that one so intelligent as you are should 
be led away, with all his people, from the purity of the 
Gospel (as we read it in the Bible) to the errors of 
Rome." 

''And are you so sure of that, madam?" said the 
priest. 

''Indeed I am, or I would not dare introduce the 
subject. Feeling myself so entirely right, I do not 
think it presumptuous in me to acknowledge this 
strong, unquenchable desire to see you right, too. I 
feel it is an inspiration, a light, even a mission from 
the Holy Ghost, to guide you to the Lord Jesus." 

The priest respected her evident sincerity, and 
knowing it would be useless to begin a controversy, he 
said mirthfullv: 

"My dear madam, I believe you to be entirely sincere 
in your desire to convert me, and if you can convince 
me that I am wrong I am most willing to listen, but 
only on one condition." 

"Name it, my dear sir," said the delighted lady. 

"Have you ever heard of a prayer called the 'Hail 
Mary?'" 

The lady reflected. 

"Yes," she said. "I had a little maid in my family, 
a little French-Canadian orphan who was a pious 



OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 175 

Roman Catholic. When I asked her if she prayed she 
told me she said the 'Our Father" and the 'Hail Mary/ 
I did not deem it wise to interfere with her at that 
time, for I consider all prayers have some good in 
them." 

''And so they have," said the priest. "And now, 
since you have heard of the 'Hail Mary,' I will listen 
to your 'mission' provided you promise me that you 
will say or read that little prayer every day till we meet 
again. Will you promise?" 

The old lady was so eager to convert the affable 
pastor that she gave her word. She promised to say 
the Hail Mary every day. And then she poured out 
her "mission" with all the fire of a prophetess. The 
substance of her speech was that he was in darkness ; 
he must come forth from that darkness by studying the 
Bible and preaching it alone. And he and his people 
would see the light, and leave the shadow of death for 
life everlasting. 

The priest listened attentively, never interrupting, 
and courteously promised he would certainly think of 
what she had said and would assuredly pray for the 
light of the Holy Spirit in all his undertakings. 

"And now," said he, "I have redeemed my promise. 
I have listened to you. It remains for you to fulfill 
yours. You w411 daily say that prayer, the 'Hail 
Mary?'" 

"I certainly shall," said the good old lady, delighted 
that the priest seemed so favorably impressed. "I 
hope to call soon again." 



176 OUT OF THE DARKNESS. 

The priest politely showed her to the door, and as 
she passed out of sight he said smilingly to himself: 
'The good God will pity your sincere, well-meant 
efforts, my dear lady. You are working according to 
your lights, and that 'Hail Mary' will take root some- 
where and bear its fruits to the Church/' 

And he was right. 

The dear old soul never called again. She passed 
away still dreaming of the Holy Spirit's message. She 
was in good faith, and so she was judged by a merciful 
God. She did not forget her promise to say the ''Hail 
Mary" every day. And now behold the fruits : 

After her death her eldest daughter was filled with 
an unconquerable yearning to know something of the 
Catholic Church. She found the opportunity to 
inquire, and her inquiries led her to be instructed and 
baptized. She is now a fervent convert. Her younger 
sister is inclining the same way, and there is little doubt 
that she will follow in the elder's footsteps and come 
out of darkness to the true path that ever leads to light. 



The Unheeded Call 

In one of the beds of the Sisters' Hospital lay a 
dying man. He had been there for some weeks and 
had listened attentively to the kindly urging of the 
priest and the earnest appeals of the Sisters to miake 
his peace with God. He acknowledged that he knew 
he would not be received among God's elect without 
being baptized, and yet he put off the moment, saying 
repeatedly: "There is time enough." In vain did 
those who saw him failing urge him not to delay, and 
the chaplain, who was deeply interested in his case, 
ordered the good Sisters to have a table near, with 
everything in readiness, and call him instantly at the 
first sign of desire on the part of the patient. But the 
days wore on, and no desire manifested itself. 

To the big convent in the lower part of the city a 
poor tramp had been coming day after day for some- 
thing to eat, and he always asked for some work to 

do in return. Good Sister G took quite an interest 

in Jimmie, and at housecleaning time engaged him to 
wash walls and make himself generally useful. He 
did this so satisfactorily that when winter came he 
was employed as a stoker and became a fixture in the 
convent. Jimmie was rather intelligent. He had 
been an expert cabinet maker, but he was not a "white- 
ribbon man," and his fondness for the "oh-be- joyful" 



178 THE UNHEEDED CALL, 

had caused his expulsion from one situation after 
another. While he stayed at the convent no sign of 
his failing was visible, and the Sisters hoped he would 
be entirely cured. There was something about the 
man which was not ordinary, and the Sisters, finding 
he was of no religion, in fact, had never been baptized, 
left books and papers and even a little Catechism in 
his room, hoping he would read them at his leisure. 

He found time to do so, and ere long was seen 
poring over an old prayer book and learning prayers 
out of it. Soon he spoke to the Sisters, expressing a 
desire to be instructed. 

'T don't know how it is. Sister,'' he remarked to 
one of the members of the community, ''but when I 
go into your church it seems I am at home and I can 
pray. I never felt that way before.'' 

''Were any members of your family Catholics?" 
asked the Sister. 

"Not that I know," answered Jimmie. "But I'm 
going to be one, and I am reading up in those books 
on what is needed." 

His sincerity was manifest. 

"That's right, Jimmie," said the Sister. "Find out 
what is right and then follow it." 

"Yes, I've made up my mind to be baptized and lead 
a good life." 

And Jimmie got vigorously at his coal shovel as if 
he would show how he meant to get at religion. 

Days passed. Jimmie caught cold, and as he seemed 
to grow worse he was sent with a note to the hospital, 



THE UNHEEDED CALL, 179 

in hopes that a few days' treatment and rest would 
bring him around. As it happened, he was placed in 
the bed opposite the man mentioned at the beginning 
of this true story. 

The second night Jimmie was there his symptoms 
were very unfavorable, and the physicians saw that he 
had pneumonia. But he was cheerful, expressed confi- 
dence that he would recover and manifested great pity 
for ''the poor dying fellow in the bed yonder.'' Dur- 
ing the night he became much worse, and the night 
nurse said to him : 

"Jimmie, you are feeling pretty bad, are you not?" 

''Well, I am no better. Sister; but do you think I 
am dangerous ?" 

"I believe you are, Jimmie. I think you are seri- 
ously ill." 

"Well, then, Sister, in the name of God, send down 
for the priest. I have never been baptized, and I don't 
want to die without it." 

The Sister was rather reluctant to rouse the chap- 
lain at midnight, as she thought there was no very 
immediate danger, but Jimmie was urgent and an 
orderly was sent for the priest. He came at once, 
thinking that he was called to the other patient, and 
when he looked at Jimmie seemed somewhat surprised, 
as he did not appear like a dying man, although with- 
out doubt most seriously ill. 

"Father," said the Sister, "Jimmie has never been 
baptized and insists on your baptizing him now." 

"Yes, Father," said Jimmie, "I want to die in the 



i8o THE UNHEEDED CALL, 

Holy Catholic Church. I have been reading all 
about it/' 

''Are you sure, Jimmie, you want to be a sincere and 
true Catholic, and that you really desire baptism ?'' 

''With all my heart, Father,'' said Jimmie. 

"Well, then, since it is your desire I will baptize 
you, but to-morrow I must instruct you further." 

"Yes, Father," said Jimmie, "but I believe before- 
hand everything you will tell me." 

The chaplain signed to the Sister, who went over 
to the bedside of the other patient and brought the 
little table that was ready and waiting for his baptism, 
and he opened his eyes and languidly viewed the cere- 
mony. 

The necessary avowals were made by Jimmie, the 
questions answered and the sacred waters of baptism 
were poured on the head of the poor tramp. He lay 
very still with his eyes closed. Suddenly, like a flash, 
a change came over his face and a rattle in his throat. 

"Father," said the Sister, "look! He must be 
dying." 

The priest had also noted the change and knew what 
was coming. Ah ! who can mistake that awful gray 
shadow ? He hurriedly put on the stole, which he had 
folded up, and quickly opening his oil stock gave 
Jimmie Extreme Unction in the short form and then 
the last absolution. Before the final words had died 
away poor Jimmie's soul had passed in its white robe 
of baptismal innocence to the presence of its Judge. 



THE UNHEEDED CALL, i8i 

"God's wonderful mercy!" murmured the priest as 
he quietly withdrew. 

''Poor Jimmie V said the night nurse, as she closed 
his eyes and drew the sheet over his white face. ''God 
loved you and gave you the grace to respond promptly 
to His call. May your soul find eternal rest. Amen.'' 

She left his bedside to call the orderlies so that the 
body might be removed. She was deeply impressed 
by the sudden call of Jimmie and the wonderful grace 
he had received, and an hour after, as she made her 
rounds and noted poor Jimmie's empty cot, her 
thoughts went to the poor patient in the opposite bed 
w^ho had delayed so long to respond to the grace of 
God's call. She hoped poor Jimmie's baptism and 
death had made an impression on him, and she went 
softly to his pillow. One glance, and she started back 
in horror. 

He was dead! 

His was the unheeded call. 



[liAY I J 1908 



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